


Five Times Ginny Tells Harry She's Pregnant (And One Time She Can't)

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, F/F, F/M, Gen, Infertility, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 00:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15593871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: Six standalone chapters. Six alternate universes. Five times when Ginny delivers some particularly pertinent information...and one time when she can't.





	1. One in Eight

**Author's Note:**

> This concept was shamelessly stolen from a circa-2007 fanfiction for the US version of The Office. Unfortunately, it seems that the website in which that story was published has gone the same way as Checkmated and no longer exists. Thus, I am unable to give credit to the original author/provide a link to the story...but if you happen to be the author of that (rather obscure) original fic and would like credit, please don’t hesitate to ask :) 
> 
> I’d like to provide a forewarning that this story will not be a happy, lighthearted jaunt that skips to Nineteen Years Later without a hitch. Harry and Ginny will not end up as happily-married parents in every chapter. In some chapters, they will even be with other people. If angst isn’t your thing, my other stories are extremely fluffy. I’d be truly honored (and not at all offended) if you read those instead :) 
> 
> Please read and review!
> 
> TW: Infertility, language, mild sexual references, general angst

They’d started trying immediately after they got married. And if they were being completely honest with themselves, they’d probably started trying a little bit before that—“accidentally” skipping their potions, conveniently forgetting to cast contraceptive charms, claiming that muggle condoms were simply too cumbersome to be sexy.  
  
  
The second they officially walked down the aisle, though, there was no mistaking that they both knew _exactly_ what they wanted—little green-eyed or red-haired children to coddle and coo over, little Potter babies share their lives with. They wore matching grins as they fell into bed on their wedding night, finding comfort in hands and mouths and soft caresses, just like they always had. They spent their entire honeymoon making love over and over and over again, and although neither one said it aloud, they both figured they’d given it a decent shot.

Ginny actually cried the first time it didn’t work. As a general rule, she wasn’t really the type who cried; she’d been raised with six brothers, and tears had rarely gotten her anything but whispered taunts and being called _a baby_.

 

Still, seeing that flash of disappointment in Harry’s eyes as she sadly marched from their loo was a bit more than she could take.

 

He held her closely against his chest, but his calm words of reassurance did little to console her.

 

“It’s alright, Gin,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’ve got nothing but time. We’re young. It’ll happen eventually, yeah?”

 

She nodded, trying her hardest to stay optimistic. Through it all, though, she had a nagging suspicion that something wasn’t quite right—a lingering conviction that they’d have trouble.

 

Unfortunately, Ginny’s instincts were correct.

 

After the first six months, they both got a bit exasperated. It didn’t help matters that everyone they bloody _knew_ was getting pregnant: Bill and Fleur ( _again_ ), George and Angelina (with  _twins_! How _lovely_!), even Percy and his girlfriend, when they’d only been dating a few weeks at the time. As much as Ginny had secretly relished watching her mother frantically plan a wedding before Audrey started to show, she would have enjoyed being pregnant during those preparations much, much more.

  
  
And through all this, Molly had somehow figured out that Harry and Ginny were having issues. Not that Ginny had said a bloody _word_ about it; she’d preferred her parents completely oblivious to all aspects of her sex life, and was rather proud that her mum genuinely believed that she’d gotten married as a virgin.

 

Nevertheless, whenever they’d go to the Burrow, Molly would find a way to slide a few fertility-related comments into one-on-one conversations with either her daughter or her son-in-law. From those bits and pieces, they’d basically confirmed their worst fears: Infertility in the magical world was quite rare, especially since Ginny was pureblood. Apparently  _hyper_ -fertility was far more common, and treatments to render oneself _in_ fertile were very costly. All-in-all, it explained the Weasley brood quite well...but it did nothing to explain the family that the Potters were attempting to make.

  
  
Yet, they were determined to give it more time, even though there was a startling lack of information available on the subject. After all, most wizards and witches reproduced quite effortlessly; few people had found the need to research much beyond that. As such, Harry blamed _him_ self, Ginny blamed _her_ self, and the cycle continued.

  
  
Month after month, and in spite of their mounting fears, the Potters played the role of doting aunt and uncle. They plastered on fake smiles and dutifully attended birthday parties and Christenings and met each new Weasley baby at Saint Mungo’s. All the while, their previously-erotic sexual encounters became strategically-timed, mechanical, even  _boring._

 

“Well, if I’d known it would be _this_ hard,” said Harry one night, his voice wooden, “I could’ve saved Galleons in condoms while you were still at Hogwarts.”  
  
  
  
Ginny snorted beside him, her feet elevated on the headboard. “And don’t forget about the multiple contraceptive charms. And the potions. And the – _you know_.” She winced and made a vague hand gesture.

 

Harry cracked a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

 

“Well, hopefully this works,” she muttered, wriggling her bum. "I’m feel like I'm getting more bitter each month.”

 

“I’m sure it will, Gin,” Harry whispered, tucking her a strand of hair behind her ear and kissing her on the cheek.

 

She got her period three days later.

* * *

They developed scripted responses for whenever someone asked _T_ _he_ _D_ _readed_ _Q_ _uestion_. While  _T_ _he_ _D_ _readed_ _Q_ _uestion_ itself came in many forms, the least sensitive and most appalling version came from Lavender Brown, of all people. It happened when Ginny was picking up a takeaway for the two of them at a pub in London, and she was cornered by her husband’s former schoolmate before she knew what was happening.

“ _So_ ,” Lavender giggled, swaying a bit on her bar stool; she was clearly already a few drinks in.“Is the Boy Who Lived _ever_ going to make a little boy of his own?”

 

And perhaps if Ginny hadn’t just been hit with her period _several_ days early, perhaps if they hadn’t been trying (and failing) for the better part of a year, perhaps if she could just _give_ The Boy Who Lived that little baby they both wanted so desperately, she could have provided one of those diplomatic, scripted responses: “Maybe someday!” “You never know!” “If it happens!”

 

Instead, she stared at Lavender point-blank and said, “It depends. Is the Girl Who Snogged My Brother ever going to stop getting pissed on weekdays and slagging her way through England?”

 

Ginny then slammed some money on the bar, took her bags of food, and left the pub without a second glance. She blinked through her tears as she strode purposefully to their flat, trying her hardest not to think about the look of hurt and bewilderment smacked across Lavender’s face, or the fact that she would definitely run into that cow again since they both had columns for _The Prophet_.

 

Still, it had been a very rude question...right? It was quite a presumption to just _assume_ that all couples wanted children in the first place. Or that they were interested in discussing the possibility with acquaintances with whom they hadn’t shared a proper conversation in years.

But of course, Ginny admitted as she opened their door to their darkened flat, the question had struck a particular nerve because she and Harry _did_ want kids. More than words could possibly express. More than either of them had ever wanted anything in their entire lives.

 

And yet, there they were, month after month – eating takeaways and traveling freely and consuming alcohol and sleeping, uninterrupted, for long stretches of time.

 

That night, Ginny cried herself to sleep on the couch before Harry even got home.

* * *

When they’d been trying exactly a year, they finally admitted to each other that they needed help. Of course, they’d each decided that individually some time ago; it was just particularly painful to say it aloud. And due to the lack of available information on the subject, they knew they’d have to ask Hermione where they should even _start_.

 

“Our newest recruit just announced that his wife’s pregnant,” Harry said at dinner that night as he listlessly moved his food around his plate. “He’s _nineteen_ years old. I think he actually expected me to be happy for him, the tosser.”

 

Ginny sat across from him, her face pale and crestfallen. She’d just gotten her period. _Again_.

 

“Well, he didn’t know, I suppose,” she muttered, taking a sip of wine. Cabernet had officially replaced steak and kidney pie as her favorite dinner.

 

They were silent for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

 

“What I don’t understand, though,” Ginny began some time later, an acrid edge in her voice, “is what we’ve _ever_ done to deserve this. You saved the bloody wizarding world, for Merlin’s sake!”

 

“Yeah, well, tell that to my swimmers.” Harry pushed his plate away, rubbing his hand over his face.

 

Ginny scoffed at that and took another sip. “We’ve no _idea_ , Harry. It’s probably me. No one in my family’s ever had any problems before.

 

“All the more reason why it’s my fault!”

 

She sighed and looked at the table. “Well, we’ll ask Hermione tomorrow night. She’s bound to know where we can _start_ , at least.”

* * *

As it turned out, they _did_ get the information they needed. But not in the way they’d hoped.

 

Hermione was pregnant. And _glowing_.

 

Ginny had known something was up from the moment she and Harry had sat down across from them at the restaurant. Ron was looking particularly chipper for someone who’d just worked a near 24-hour shift in the joke shop. He’d quit the Aurors last month, citing the need to “stay out of danger” for Hermione’s sake. Ginny had known that was bullocks – when had _Hermione_ ever been one to discourage his career? – but she hadn’t let herself think too much about it. If she’d been honest with herself, though, she probably already knew why.

 

“ _So_ ,” began Ron, absolutely beaming. “We wanted to tell something to the two of you before we told anyone else.” He draped a protective arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and she giggled back at him, her skin almost luminescent in the dim lighting.

 

Ginny’s heart plummeted. Her suspicions had been right.

 

“We’re going to have a baby!” Hermione declared merrily, wearing the largest, most ecstatic grin they’d ever seen.

 

Unfortunately, this announcement did not have the desired effect. There were no cheers, no hugs, no calls for celebration, no jokes about how Hermione had _better cut back_ on working those long hours, no good-natured wisecracks about the alleged Weasley Super Swimmers and how efficiently they’d managed to _do their damned job_.

 

Instead, the Potters were only able to respond to this brilliant, life-changing news – from their oldest friends, no less– with a stony silence.

 

“Congrats,” Harry said stiffly, trying his best to look happy for them. The resulting facial expression was somewhere between a grin and a grimace. He cleared his throat and glanced at somewhere near Ron’s shoulder. “When are...when are you due?”

 

But unlike Harry, Ginny couldn’t even pretend to remain composed. “ _Excuse me_ ,” she whispered, rising from her chair. She turned away and bolted to the loo, her face already crumpled in outrage and disappointment.

 

In what became the _only_ fortuitous event of the evening, the restaurant had a single-stalled loo – and it was unoccupied. Ginny thrust open the door, locking and silencing it behind her, and collapsed on the toilet seat, her vision blurred with tears.

 

She would allow herself ten minutes of this, Ginny decided, wadding up some toilet paper to mop at her face while her body convulsed with sobs. _Yes_. She would spend ten minutes wallowing in self-pity at the _bloody injustice_ of the whole thing, ten minutes bemoaning her basic inability to possess reproductive functions, ten minutes grieving for a child she’d never even lost.

 

Then, she would plaster a smile on her face, march back to the table, and do her damndest to be happy for her brother and her best friend. After all, it wasn’t _their_ fault that her body was so worthless. Ron and Hermione were  _excited_. They had every right to be. They were reacting in a completely normal way, doing exactly what she and Harry would have done, had things been easy for them. And in exactly ten – no, _nine_ – minutes, Ginny would find the time to reflect on how extremely selfish she’d been.

 

After six minutes, there was a gentle knock at the door.

 

“Can I come in?” Hermione’s voice floated through the loo.

 

Ginny had a brief moment where she actually considered not answering, content to keep up the ruse that she wasn’t sitting on a public toilet and sobbing at 8 PM on a Friday evening. She had another brief moment where she considered apparating out of the loo and just going home, all so she wouldn’t have to see another _blasted_ pregnant woman.

 

Instead, she shook her head, disgusted with herself. When had she started thinking of other people like this? When had she started thinking of  _Hermione_ like this? She unlocked the door with a flick of her wand, utterly mortified. What a complete _child_ she’d been.

 

“Hey,” Hermione said softly, walking in and locking the door again.

 

“I’m  _so_ sorry,” Ginny began thickly, her head in her hands. “Gods, Hermione, I’m _s_ _o–_ ”

 

But Hermione cut her off, wrapping her arms around her in a firm hug.

 

“Don’t be,” she whispered, pushing Ginny’s hair back from her face and kneeling on the floor in front of her. “I’m the one who feels terrible, we legitimately had no idea, Harry’s just told us.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Ginny said bitterly, glaring at the tile. “You’ve every right to be happy. Your body does what it’s bloody _meant_ to.”

 

Hermione sharply clucked her tongue and tilted Ginny’s chin up to face her. “Now, _enough_ of that– I’m not listening to word of it. I’m sure the problem is something really small, a tiny little thing that will make all the difference. I only wish you’d come to me sooner, muggles have loads of treatment options we might look into.”

 

Ginny swallowed. “I’d like to believe that, I really would. We were going to ask you for help tonight, but...”

 

Hermione shook her head again, pulling Ginny in for another hug. “I promise you, our baby will have a cousin.”

 

“Yeah, because your _b-baby_ –,” Ginny’s voice stuttered a bit on the word; her face contorted, like it was something foreign in her mouth, “already  _has_ loads of cousins.”

 

“ _No._ ” Hermione stared into Ginny’s eyes with a ferocity she hadn’t seen since test preparations at Hogwarts. “Our baby will have _Potter_ cousins. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

Ginny offered her a watery smile and awkwardly rose to her feet, brushing her hands against her trousers.

 

“Now I’ve got to go and apologize to my utter _git_ of a brother,” Ginny moaned, turning on the tap to wash her face. “Apologizing is not an activity I’ve _ever_ particularly excelled at. Even if I _was_ being absolutely ridiculous.”

 

“Actually, could we stay in here a few minutes?” Hermione muttered, looking very pale all of a sudden. She sank down onto the toilet seat. “It always hits me, this time of day. Morning sickness, my _arse_.”

 

But to Ginny’s own horror, she found herself incapable of doing anything except setting her jaw and glaring at her sister-in-law as the poor woman turned greener and greener. The hatred, the rage, the resentment all came bubbling back in full force inside of Ginny’s chest, the strength of _the_ _abject unfairness_ of the whole situation pounding against her temples until her head throbbed.

 

Then Hermione let out an agonized moan. She was now perched in front the toilet as she held her head in her hands, waiting for the inevitable. Ginny bit her lip; that really was the worst part of getting sick – the _waiting_. She knew Hermione couldn’t possibly enjoy it, either.

 

Bullocks.

 

This was _Hermione,_ wasn’t it?

 

 _Hermione,_ the closest thing she’d ever had to a sister _,_ her best female friend, the one she’d grown up with and giggled with and plotted with, the one who had done more for her than nearly anyone else. _Hermione_ , who had tolerated her storming out of her pregnancy announcement. _Hermione,_ who had married her brother... _  
_

 

Ginny shook her head and closed her eyes, absolutely sick with herself – even sicker with herself than Hermione looked. She forced a few deep breaths. Hermione really hadn’t been trying to rub her nose in it – she legitimately felt ill. And from the looks of things, she’d need help soon.

 

So instead of saying something vile or bitter or envious, Ginny walked over to rub her friend’s back. “It’s alright love,” she whispered softly, and conjured a blanket so the floor wouldn’t feel so cold beneath her bare legs.

 

And when Hermione got violently ill a few seconds later, Ginny held back her hair like the good, loyal sister-in-law she knew she was. It seemed like Hermione vomited for ages, until she was wan and sweaty as she dry-heaved, her expression one of utmost misery.

 

 _And yet_ , Ginny thought as she conjured a glass of cool water and pressed it into Hermione’s hands, _I’d give anything to be sick like that, too._

* * *

Hermione was true to her word. As the months progressed, and Hermione herself got larger and larger, she researched relentlessly, offering well-meaning updates about what she’d uncovered whenever she saw Harry or Ginny around the Ministry. Unfortunately, they both knew her too well to believe it; she’d never been particularly skilled at hiding bad news.

 

So when Hermione finally, _finally_ sent a letter to the Potter residence suggesting that the four of them “meet somewhere privately,” Harry and Ginny both assumed the worst. They had no reason to think otherwise; if Hermione, of all people, hadn’t turned up anything in five months, what chance did they really have?

 

Harry and Ginny immediately offered to host dinner for Ron and Hermione at their flat. They each had their own reasons for doing so, although they hadn’t shared these musings with each other. Ginny reckoned it would be far less embarrassing to cry in her own residence when she received the inevitable blow; Harry figured it would be cheaper and more convenient to get blind-drunk in the comfort of his own home.

 

Neither of them ate much of the Shepherd’s Pie they served. They were each filled with too much dread, stuck in this wretched middle space between wanting dinner to be over so they could find out, and wanting to enjoy the last few minutes of their lives in which they still possessed some shred of hope.

 

Ginny politely cleared away the dishes and served coffee after dinner, her stomach writhing and twisting as she got everyone settled in the living room. Harry, for his part, looked completely out of it. He kept staring blankly ahead on the sofa, as if he only heard the fuzzy edges of the conversation brimming around him. It was only when Ginny sat down beside him and grabbed his hand that he seemed to come back to himself.

 

“ _Okay_ ,” Hermione began, her hands resting on her bump. She took a deep breath and looked at Harry and Ginny from across the living room. “I think I might’ve figured out the problem.”

 

Ron said nothing, but did his best to look supportive; he’d long since decided to avoid the direct gazes of his sister and best mate whenever this topic arose.

 

“Oh?” Harry picked up his tumbler of firewhiskey and took a sip. Like his wife, he’d been resigned to the worst the moment he’d gotten the letter. “So you’ve finally figured out that my swimmers _can’t_...” He threw a gesture into the air.

 

Ginny rolled her eyes glared at her husband; they were on the brink of getting answers, and she was  _really_ tired of explaining this to him.

 

Hermione just stared into her lap. “Well, to be honest,” she said slowly,“...I think it’s both of you.”

 

...wait, _what_?

 

“ _Both_ of us?” Ginny echoed. She felt the world spinning, and was very glad indeed that she was sitting down. She hadn’t even realized it, but she’d been clinging to this belief that just _one_ of them had caused the problem. If it’d been just her – or just Harry – there might’ve been a chance it could work…

 

“I  _t_ _hink_ so,” Hermione confirmed. She sighed and adjusted a pillow beneath her back.“But to know for sure...you’re both going to have to be honest with me about some... _unpleasant_ topics.”

 

Ron shifted uncomfortably and shot Hermione a questioning gaze. She answered his silent request with a small shake of her head, and he relaxed back on the couch. Ron had agreed to stay as long as the conversation didn’t turn to...certain activities he’d rather not think about.

 

“ _Unpleasant_ ,” Harry repeated flatly, crossing his arms. His tone was bitter, withdrawn. “Well, to be honest, Hermione, you’re going to have to be more specific, since a good portion of my life could be described that way.” 

 

Hermione chose to ignore him and proceed with her original line of questioning; she’d never had much patience for Harry’s downward spirals.

 

“Ginny,” she started, her tone softening as she turned to his wife. Hermione bit her lip.“I know this is really an awful thing to mention. And I’m sorry...but how often did the Carrows... _bother_ _you_...during your sixth year?”

 

Ginny snorted and took a sip of wine; if _that’s_ where this conversation was headed, she’d might as well get properly sloshed. She rubbed her eyes tiredly before responding.

 

“When  _didn’t_ they? I was the girlfriend of Undesirable Number One, and—” She stopped abruptly at the look on Harry’s face. He reached for her hand and she took it, swallowing.

 

She hated talking about this— more than anything else.

 

“At least once a day,” Ginny finished in a small voice, staring at her feet. “They did loads of spells. Dark ones. Ones I’ve never evenheard of.”

 

Hermione sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that. I...I think that’s what’s causing it. On your end.”

 

There was a very tense pause. Ginny gulped as angry tears dripped, unbidden, into her lap. She bit the inside of her cheek as hard as she could, pleading with herself that the pain would provide enough of a distraction. Harry gripped his wand so tightly he might’ve broken it. At Hermione’s side, Ron let out a strangled growl, his face deepening into a shade of maroon.

 

“Dark Magic has...certain effects,” Hermione continued. “Ones powerful enough to have been studied. And they’re especially potent on purebloods.”

 

“Of course they are,” Ginny whispered, still staring into her lap. Blood began to pool on her tongue from where she’d bitten her cheek. How supremely naive she’d been, assuming that those hours spent in the dungeons all those years ago had been the end of her torture…

 

But Hermione wasn’t done. Her tone was now conversational, even _pedantic_ , as if getting the information out in the open had made her oblivious to the feelings of everyone else in the room.

 

“However,” she persisted, taking a sip of water. “Harry was also hit by Avada Kedavra. _Twice_. I assume that’s the other half of the issue, but no one has ever survived that, so we’re seriously lacking in any quantifiable research that might point us in the right direction…”

 

At that point, Harry assumed that Hermione had continued speaking. But wasn’t able to hear her.

 

He felt very hot all of a sudden, like the walls were closing in on him from the periphery of his vision. His mind was whirring at a breakneck pace, and he found himself struggling to take sharp, gasping breaths in his attempts to process.

 

His worst fears had been confirmed: It was his fault. It was _his_ fault that he’d assumed Ginny would be safe at Hogwarts when he left. It was _his_ fault that nearly everyone he’d ever loved had been killed or tortured. It was _his. bloody. fault._ that he couldn’t even get his own wife pregnant.

 

To his mortification, Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. He tried his hardest to swallow it before anyone noticed, but Ginny grabbed his hand in a matter of seconds. She knew him too well.

 

Hermione’s voice finally cut into his thoughts. “ – of course, those procedures will be fairly invasive, but if you’re really committed, many of them have been seen to have success rates.”

 

Harry blinked. He hadn’t been paying attention; he had no idea how long she’d even been talking. He glanced over at Ginny. She’d developed that little wrinkle in between her eyes that told him she was confused, too.

 

“Er, sorry,” Harry said gruffly, turning back at her. He blinked. “ _What_ procedures?”

 

Hermione pursed her lips and responded with an expression that was halfway between a glare and a smirk. It was a look Harry was quite familiar with, one that only transpired when he’d been ignoring her attempts at getting him to revise before an exam. He almost laughed, despite the inappropriateness of the situation.

 

Hermione, though, seemed to realize that this was an experience completely unlike their Hogwarts days. She took one glance at Ginny’s pale, worried face and proceeded on without a single word.

 

“I  _said_ ,” Hermione repeated, “that you have quite a few options for this to be successful. You’d need to go to a fertility clinic, but they can give you medication, or artificially help the sperm meet the egg, or remove Ginny’s eggs to implant them with your sperm.”

 

At this, Ron winced but – to his credit – remained silent.

 

“Will it be...painful?” Ginny asked quietly. The most she knew about muggle medicine came from Hermione’s parents, who enjoyed sticking metal objects into people’s mouths.

 

Hermione shrugged. “I’m not going to lie to you; it might be. But they’ve got loads of muggle medicine to help with that.”

 

There was another beat of very strained silence. Everyone avoided each other’s eyes.

 

“So we’d have to go a... _a clinic,_ ” Harry finally blurted. He was glaring at the pattern on the carpet like it had personally offended him.

 

“Well, at this point, yeah, I think that’s your best option.”

 

“A _muggle_ clinic,” Ginny clarified, her tone flat. The longer she sat with this, the less she liked it.

 

Hermione gave her a smile; somehow, it seemed particularly condescending. Then, she plowed on. “There are _loads_ of clinics in Great Britain, you really shouldn’t have any issues. Just cast a few minor memory charms and find a private clinic – not one associated with the muggle health system, so you won’t run into as many personal records. St. Mungo’s really isn’t equipped to handle this. And after all the time you two have spent dodging the press, I don’t think you’d want your business aired about there.”

 

In perfect unison, Harry and Ginny agreed with her in the form of a particularly colorful expletive. Ron grinned before he caught himself.

 

“Well, that’s _that_ , then,” said Hermione proudly. It seemed she still hadn’t quite grasped that this information might have been painful for them to hear – especially when pregnancy had come so easily for her.

 

“I’ve collected a few pamphlets for you,” she added, as Ron helped her to stand. “I’ll have an owl send them over. I didn’t bring them, since I wasn’t _sure_ how you’d...” She trailed off awkwardly.

 

Ron cleared his throat. “It’s late, love. You need your sleep.”

 

Saying their goodbyes was particularly painful.

 

“Thank you,” Ginny whispered, wrapping Hermione in a tight hug as they stood by the door. “ _I’m sorry_. Again. Thank you.”

 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Hermione replied simply as her hair brushed against Ginny’s cheek. “I’m only glad I could help.”

* * *

“Well, we were both right,” Ginny said listlessly, staring up at the ceiling later that night.  
  
  
“Huh?” Harry’s stomach was churning with guilt; it always did after he’d been reminded of events that had transpired during Ginny’s sixth year.  
  
  
Ginny rolled over to face him. The moonlight from the open window made her seem even paler. “We were both right,” she repeated, her eyes dark and flooded with regret. “It’s _both_ of us.”  
  
  
Harry ran his hand down his face and sighed. “I guess we should’ve figured. It only makes sense that the shit he threw our way lasted longer than we thought.”  
  
  
“Well, we’ve both...had traumas.” She rolled the silk of her dressing gown between two of her fingers. “I guess we couldn’t expect to get out of _that_ unscathed.”  
  
  
“Ron and Hermione did,” Harry bit out before he could help himself.  
  
  
Ginny flipped over on her back again and sighed. “Yeah, well, only _one_ of them was hit with an Unforgivable for an extended period of time. We just happened to get lucky.”  
  
  
Harry laughed darkly. _Lucky_.  
  
  
“Did she seem...really insensitive, to you?” he pressed. He knew she hadn’t meant it that way – he really, truly did. But at times, he wished Hermione would make more of an effort to sound more thoughtful and less patronizing.  
  
  
Ginny shrugged noncommittally, even though she’d picked up on that too. “I’m starting to think all fertile people are. And you know that’s just how Hermione gets, when she’s trying to help you.”  
  
  
Harry sighed; he  _did_ know. “Well at least we know we have options,” he muttered, curling up against her side. “At least we know we can look _elsewhere_.”  
  
  
Ginny yawned and snuggled into his embrace. For the first time in several says, he allowed a smile to dance across his face as he breathed in the flowery smell of her hair. And that night, with the faintest sliver of hope on the horizon, they slept better than they had in a long time.

* * *

Their “elsewhere” ended up being a muggle fertility clinic in Scotland. It was far enough away from London that they probably wouldn’t be recognized, but close enough to make day trips without apparating, if they needed to. Hermione had warned that muggle infertility treatments and apparition hadn’t mixed before, and Harry and Ginny certainly weren’t willing to take any chances on the off-chance anything worked.  
  
  
So it was with renewed conviction that they checked into the clinic, signing their names as Jenny and Henry Prewitt and subtly casting Confundus charms on various members of the desk staff.  
  
  
“We’re not _really_ doing anything bad,” Ginny whispered, biting her lip. She picked up a magazine in the waiting room. “They won’t know the difference. And besides, would any of this exist if you hadn’t done...what you did...when you were 17?” She dropped her voice lower on this last part and glanced around surreptitiously. Harry smiled a little to himself; she’d never been quite comfortable in the muggle world.  
  
  
It only took the nurse calling for “Prewitt” twice before Harry and Ginny figured out who she was talking to. And it was then, in Dr. Reinhorn’s office, that the real interrogation began.  
  
  
Dr. Reinhorn was a no-nonsense blonde woman in her early 50s who’d clearly seen this exact predicament so many times that she had long ago lost touch with how degrading the experience might be. She wasted no time in barraging the two of them with some of the most intimate, personal questions they’d ever had the displeasure of discussing with a complete stranger. With burning faces, they answered her to the best of their abilities, each vowing never to discuss it again.  
  
  
Then, when both felt that they’d faced sufficient emotional trauma, they were separated for additional physical assessments.  
  
  
They took Ginny’s vitals, drew her blood, and subjected her to a specific type of exam that could only have been described as a waking nightmare. When the nurse wheeled into the exam room with the... _implement_...Ginny had stared at it blankly for a long time before she’d even realized what it was for. Then, when the nurse _explained_ what it was for, it had taken all of her strength not to immediately bolt from the room, even though she had already changed into a particularly revealing medical garment.  
  
  
But she had thought of Harry, and the look on his face whenever he held a baby, and the way his eyes got all misty and full of longing whenever  _she_ held a baby. She thought of how her family was the closest he’d ever gotten to having a family at all. She thought of how he’d hummed with excitement for the first few months that they’d tried, how happy he’d been when she’d reported feeling tired or ill or achy, all to have that viciously snatched away month after month; it was a particularly cruel trick of nature that premenstrual symptoms shared so many similarities with early pregnancy symptoms. She thought of how they’d already discussed a quidditch theme for a nursery, regardless of the baby’s sex, because they just wanted one  _so badly_.  
  
  
So she summoned the strength to remain firmly planted for the exam, even as her nails dug into her palms so tightly that she was left with little half-crescent indentations for the remainder of the day.  
  
  
Harry’s experience, though less invasive, had been violating in its own right. He was very matter-of-factly expected to... _produce_...something that he’d never had to produce under pressure before. He spent most of the time panicking that he was taking too long, or wondering (in horror) if they’d installed cameras in the room, or musing about what Ginny was doing, and if she’d be available to make this a little easier for him.  
  
  
When they finally left the office an hour later, they both felt sufficiently laid bare. They’d always been totally honest with each other – it was one of the things that made their relationship so strong. It was another thing entirely, though, to be so brutally honest with someone who knew so little about them.  
  
  
“I just hope it’s worth it,” Harry voiced, almost to himself, as they sat across from each other at a nearby restaurant. He was staring wide-eyed at the table, still lost somewhere in attempting to process what had just transpired. The appointment had left him particularly unnerved; he’d always hated being the center of attention, always loathed having his personal details exposed.  
  
  
“It will,” Ginny countered fiercely, staring at her menu with particular intensity. “ _When_ we have a baby, Harry, it’ll all be worth it.”  
  
  
He reached for her hand across the table and kissed her softly on the knuckles. She gave him a radiant smile back. And when he thought about the chance of maybe, _maybe_ seeing that smile on a little black-haired or ginger baby, he agreed with her.

* * *

 

A week later, they received results from their tests. To say the least, they weren’t what they’d hoped. In spite of what Hermione had suggested in the loo all those months ago, it was apparent that this wasn’t something that could easily be fixed.  
  
  
They were both lacking, and fairly significantly at that: Harry had both low motility and low morphology. Ginny had something called Diminished Ovarian Reserve, and likely had poor egg quality as well. The kind muggle nurse who called them back took special care to explain how _rare_ this was for people as young as they were, and mentioned that the most aggressive option (In-Vitro Fertilization) would probably be the best.  
  
  
Ginny’s reaction to this news was instantaneous anger. She felt quite fortunate that she’d been able to control this knee-jerk response before biting back a particularly nasty retort about _why it_ _bloody_ _mattered_ that they were young. She spent the rest of the phone call demanding rapid-fire information what the procedure – IVF, they called it – entailed. Harry was only capable of contributing monosyllables to the entire conversation.  
  
  
They ended the call on Harry’s mobile feeling both stunned and devastated, so much that it was all they could do to hold hands and take deep breaths and try not to burst into tears. Separately, they were each positive that curse damage was to blame. But then again, they knew they’d never have any way of knowing.  
  
  
For the first time since they’d been married, Harry and Ginny cried together that night.  
  
  
It was something they hadn’t done since they were teenagers who’d just finished defeating the greatest evil that the world had ever seen. And yet, they found themselves, in their 20s, clinging to each other and sobbing snotty tears and shaking so badly that they each got a pulsating headache that seemed to stretch in a tight band from the back to the front. Their emotions warred together in some type of inexorable spiral – validation, for having been right that they couldn’t do this. Hopelessness, for what the future might (or likely _might not_ ) bring. Rage, that this had happened to them in the first place. Envy, that it had been so easy for everyone else.  
  
  
It took them a few days to process, to wrap their minds around the fact that they would absolutely, 100%, beyond a shadow of a doubt, _require_ interventions...if they wanted to get pregnant. Which they did. They knew it now as much as they’d known it when they got married. It was an ingrained truth, a solid conviction, something they couldn’t separate from who they were.  
  
  
Not that they were opposed to adoption – they really, really weren’t. From Harry’s experiences growing up, he knew better than anyone that being related didn’t necessarily make a happy family. But if they had the means and opportunity to give it a shot, didn’t they deserve that, too? At least an _attempt_ at little Potters, ones who shared their genetic material? They were fully prepared to take the next step if it didn’t work...but they wanted to try.  
  
  
Still, they knew they might be shamed for their decision. They were confident they’d receive loads of unsolicited advice about how much  _easier_ it would be to adopt (although it wouldn’t), how much  _cheaper_ it would be to adopt (again, not true), how much  _nobler_ it would be to adopt (which was, frankly, the wrong damned reason to adopt in the first place), or how _selfish_ they were for daring to want to procreate.  
  
  
As such, they didn’t tell anyone except for Ron and Hermione, who were both happy that they (at least) had a plan moving forward. Of course, Hermione was now only eight weeks shy of her due date, so it was possible that the Granger-Weasleys, enveloped in their own little cloud of fertility hubris, were just tired of discussing the matter entirely.

* * *

  
Harry and Ginny approached the fertility clinic the following month with renewed determination, resolute in their convictions that this just _might_ provide them with that little baby they’d wanted for so, so long. The staff at the clinic seemed happy to see them again, despite how awkward and strained their phone call with the nurse had been.  
  
  
And so it was then, after 19 months of marriage, that the Potters truly began making a baby. The new-fashioned way.  
  
  
First came the medications – more medications than Ginny had ever taken in her life, more than Harry had ever seen. They were told it was all necessary in preparation for the egg retrieval, but Ginny was on so many different supplements and tablets and hormonal pills that she had to go to a muggle pharmacy and buy a medication organizer, just to stay on top of things. Most of the drugs were to be administered orally, but a few were a tad more...invasive... in nature.  
  
  
Then came the jabs.  
  
  
Harry dutifully helped her mix injections every single night and made occasional jokes about “being back in Potions class.” She’d snort and reply that she hoped it was Slughorn’s class and not Snape’s.  
  
  
Harry never complained about any of it – not even once. He complied when she asked him to jab her bum with a needle. _He_ apologized to _her_ when she screamed at him in a crazed hormonal rage over hanging up his bath towel. He made a special point to tell her that she was beautiful every single day, even though she felt fat and miserable and had gained (at least) a stone. He’d never voiced as much, but to him, she was providing the ultimate sacrifice, all so he could have a family. Of course, Ginny had sussed out Harry’s feelings a long time ago; her only fear was that she’d fail him.  
  
  
And all the while, they watched. They waited. They learned more acronyms than they knew what do to with (IVF, PGS, FET, DOR, MFI, TWW). It felt like a new language, one in which they were expected to have fluent conversations without missing a beat. Privately, Ginny thought that learning Mermish would have been both easier and more practical, but she couldn’t deny the benefits of being able to so fluidly drop these terms during chats with Dr. Reinhorn.  
  
  
None of it was cheap. They managed fine between Ginny’s salary as a professional athlete and Harry’s sizable inheritance, but it was unfathomable to consider how someone without means could have afforded even one cycle. Even if it _was_ in muggle money. Which they had to get exchanged on a regular basis. Trips to Gringotts were becoming so frequent in the Potter household that paparazzi knew where to find them on any given day; the  _Witch Weekly_ rumors about their bank visits were so hilariously off the mark that Harry and Ginny couldn’t help but laugh. Or cry. It depended on the day, really.  
  
  
During the cycle, Ginny was expected to show up at the clinic every 24-72 hours, basically at the drop of a hat. She became quite adept at navigating through the features on Harry’s mobile phone, and even managed to send a few text messages to the clinic without seeming like a complete technological novice. Due to the ludicrous number of monitoring appointments, she’d never been happier that the Harpies hadn’t made it to the playoffs, although she’d take that secret to the grave.  
  
  
When he got the chance, Harry dropped by the clinic and provided his sample. He tried not to be bitter about the fact that a medical professional would then use that material to manually fertilize one of his wife’s eggs. However, like many other things in Harry’s life, he couldn't deny that this experience, too, had been snatched from his own hands.  
  
  
Harry spent that week oscillating between being grateful that this part was so much easier for him, and being filled with righteous indignation (on Ginny’s behalf) that it was so much more work for her. Then, as the days and medications progressed, and he  _watch_ _ed_ Ginny become nauseated and bloated and generally miserable, he settled on being grateful. And thankful… _p_ _rofoundly_ thankful...that she was willing to do this in the first place.  
  
  
On cycle day 11, Harry accompanied her for the egg retrieval – the first step of their journey. For someone who’d professed her trepidation over the entire concept of muggle medicine, Ginny had agreed to undergo general anesthesia with a surprising degree of readiness. Harry dutifully held her hand until she fell asleep, and although his stomach was twisted into knots while they had her in the operating theatre, she was returned an hour later, completely unharmed, if not adorably intoxicated.  
  
  
Unfortunately, some less-than-steller news had accompanied his wife’s return to the recovery room: Dr. Reinhorn had only managed to collect five eggs. It was a bit of a setback, but after so many months of disappointment, they’d both been prepared for the absolute _worst_. By comparison, five seemed almost fortunate. They went back home to recover, still vaguely hopeful that, in the end, they'd get better news. 

* * *

  
A few days later, though – by the time Ginny was finally feeling better – they received an even greater blow: Only  _one_ of the eggs had made it to fertilization.  
  
  
_One_.  
  
  
“Gives a whole new meaning to Chosen One,” Harry said darkly after they’d ended the call. He was glaring at their kitchen table in disbelief.  
  
  
Ginny was too disappointed to laugh at his half-hearted attempt at a joke. In fact, she was capable of doing little other than staring ahead, wide-eyed, and wondering for the thousandth time if it would be possible to use the Time Turner to go back and kill the Carrows outright. She certainly had the correct motivation for that particular Unforgivable.  
  
  
Still, they had fewer options now. They’d gone this far, equally entrenched in each side of the journey. Proceeding might not result in a baby...but turning back would _definitely_ not result in a baby. Full stop. There was no clear end in sight, and only the tiniest glimmer of light shone at the end of the tunnel, its incandescence impossibly small against the building darkness. With only one viable embryo, the odds were decidedly against them.  
  
  
But then, they rationalized that beating the odds was something that they were both very familiar with. They'd done it before. They'd _succeeded_ before. Thus, they were prepared to do it again.

* * *

  
  
Two days later, they arrived at the clinic for the transfer.  
  
  
Ginny felt more swollen and miserable than she’d ever been – even her _face_ was puffy, on account of the additional steroids – and she grew steadily paler and paler as the IV injections flooded her system. Her red eyebrows were little slits of fire against her skin, the blue surgical cap having long-since constrained the rest of her hair. To Harry, though, she still looked like the gorgeous 15-year-old who’d stolen his heart, the one he’d spent ages fantasizing about, the one he’d feared was off-limits for so long. As she gripped his hand and scrunched up her face in pain, he doubted anything would ever change that.  
  
  
For the transfer itself, they kept Ginny awake, albeit highly medicated. Harry made the mistake of looking down only once, and vowed never to do so again. With a gulp and a shudder, he admitted that she was far braver than him; this particular brand of moral fortitude required a lot more composure than the type he’d had to show.  
  
  
Harry’s head was still spinning as they finished up.  
  
  
She was fast asleep as they wheeled her into the recovery room. He tagged along beside the gurney like a hopeful little puppy, unwilling to let her out of his sight. The combination of drugs had made her very drowsy, and they’d cautioned Harry that she needed to take it easy.  
  
  
He’d promptly snorted at that. Did they really think he was that much of a berk, that he needed reminding? Somewhere between watching his wife take an ungodly number of medications and witnessing a catheter being inserted into her uterus, Harry had decided he’d bloody well make sure that Ginny  _took it easy_ for the rest of their lives _._ If it took giving up his job to wait on her hand and foot, he’d do it in a heartbeat. She’d provided him with an unbelievable sacrifice – a gift he’d never forget. So,  _yeah_ , he’d make damn sure to comply with those wholly unnecessary instructions...  
  
  
For several long minutes, Harry just sat at her side in the recovery room, his thumb rubbing tiny circles on the back of her hand. He knew this wasn’t over – not by a long shot. If they’d gotten lucky, they wouldn’t have any answers for several days. Still, he couldn’t help the sparks of excitement and fear that kept exploding like tiny rockets in the pit of his stomach.  
  
  
His eyes were watering before he knew it. This was it, wasn’t it? Their chance for a  _baby..._ a squirming, cooing little bundle that he already loved so fiercely it caused him physical pain. Was it all in his head, this feeling? This overwhelming sense of affection and protectiveness and love that he felt so strongly it took his breath away, even before he knew for sure he’d ever encounter it? He shook his head, wiping his eyes. If Ginny were awake, she’d be taking the mickey, for sure.  
  
  
...ah yes, and it looked like he might be in for a ribbing, as she seemed to be waking up a bit. It started with her eyelids and eyebrows, which twitched and fluttered. Then, her lips parted slightly and she blearily blinked against the harsh florescent lights. She turned her head to face him, her pupils huge and dilated.  
  
  
“Harry?” she rasped, reaching out her other hand to grab his.  
  
  
He pressed soft kisses to her knuckles, now unable to halt the steady flow of tears down his face. She could mock him if she wanted. He really couldn’t be arsed to care.  
  
  
“Yes, love?” His voice was so shaky he was surprised he’d been able to speak at all. She took his hands and brought them to her face, and he cradled her cheeks with an almost aching tenderness. He couldn’t help but smile at her, his eyes full of unparalleled love and affection, the tears dripping freely down his nose and onto his shirt.  
  
  
Ginny nuzzled contentedly against his hand, a coy smile of her own playing at the corners of her lips. “I’m  _pregnant_ ,” she whispered, pressing a kiss against his palm. Then – before his eyes – her face stretched into the broadest, proudest grin he’d seen since the Harpies had won the Quidditch World Cup.  
  
  
Harry let out a watery chuckle and pressed his forehead to hers. “I  _know_ ,” he replied, his heart soaring. He stroked the side of her cheek and grinned back at her, even as the tears continued to fall. “ _I know_.”  
  
  
Because now, more than ever, he _did_ know.  
  
  
In particular, he knew exactly three things: One, that whatever was coming would come. Two, that together, he and Gin would face it when it did. And lastly, that he’d never felt stronger or more in love than he felt right now.  
  
  
And if he had to, he was prepared to spend the rest of his life chasing that feeling again.


	2. Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: If you don't like Harry and Ginny being with other people, you should skip this one.  
> (I know, I know...I'm all about canon...it was a tough one for me to write, too.)
> 
> Please read and review! :)

 

Ginny and Adara were sitting on their plush green couch. But perhaps  _sitting_ wasn’t the right word.  
  
  
Because right here, right now, _sitting_ only described them in the strictest of senses. Both of their bums were _on_ the couch, yes...but they were practically _on top_ of each other.  
  
  
_Bullocks_.  
  
  
Harry swallowed. That wasn’t what he’d meant. But now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.  
  
  
No. Nonononono.  _ **No**_.  
  
  
He needed to fix this – _now_.  
  
  
... _Cuddled_ together was better, wasn’t it? Harry sighed to himself and immediately decided that it was. _Yes_. They were _cuddled together on the couch_. As they had every right to be. _  
  
  
Much _ better.

  
Of course, it didn’t help that they were both stunningly beautiful, even objectively speaking: Ginny’s porcelain skin and fiery red hair was perfectly matched with Adara’s dark, wavy locks and welcoming brown eyes. Between the two of them, he was sure they’d captured more hearts than they knew.  
  
  
He awkwardly shifted his weight and tried to look at something else – _anything_ else – in the living room, hoping that one of them would notice him before he had to declare his own presence. He’d always hated doing that... _announcing_ his own arrival in someone else’s home. A self-righteous prick would do that, he thought; someone who expected others to _bow down_ before him.  
  
  
As it were, though, he didn’t see much chance of either of them noticing _anyone_ else in the room. Their faces were so close that their giggling whispers must have been amplified in the empty flat; they were only capable of hearing each other. Harry smiled shyly. He thought that was sweet.  
  
  
The two of them were _so_ close, in fact, that red and brown wisps of hair were intermingling as they breathed. Ginny had her back to him, her body angled towards the far wall, but he could see the creamy skin of her shoulders peeking beneath the cascades of her thick, red hair.  
  
  
And, in that second, all Harry could do was stand there – in the middle of _their flat_ – and wonder if her hair still smelled like flowers. Or if it still felt like silk when you ran your fingers through it. Or if she still moaned deep in the back of her throat as you –  
  
  
Without even considering that he’d make a sound, Harry groaned, rubbing his hand down his face. Oh, _bloody hell_ , this was going to be a long day.  
  
  
Fortunately – _or not_ – his frustrated utterance alerted them to his presence.  
  
  
Adara heard him first. She stopped whispering at once, her deep brown eyes big and startled as they flitted over to where Harry was standing in the corner.  
  
  
“Oh – _h-h_ _i!_ ” she stammered, her face bright red. She turned to Ginny and the two of them hastily untangled themselves.  
  
  
Ginny, however, didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed. She leapt up from the couch and marched over to him, her eyes alight with something akin to...was that excitement? He couldn’t be sure.  
  
  
“Why didn’t you say you were _here_ , prat?” she demanded. Without waiting for a response, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug.  
  
  
Harry embraced her, but pulled away quickly; he was still thinking about her hair. He’d prefer to avoid smelling it. If he could.  
  
  
“Love, you _did_ tell him to apparate in straight away,” Adara piped up from the couch, her arm draped over the back.  
  
  
For the first time since he’d arrived, Ginny’s cheeks reddened a bit; Adara was right.

  
She turned back to Harry. “Sorry,” she grinned. “You’re right. Next time I should give you more _specific_ instructions.”  
  
  
Adara scoffed at this, but Ginny continued undeterred, her voice faux-serious. “Harry,” she said, adding a scowl for dramatic effect. “Next time, please apparate directly into our flat... _and_ announce yourself.”  
  
  
Her amber eyes twinkled.  
  
  
Harry laughed. “Sorted.”

  
“Good,” Ginny beamed, clasping her hands together. “And _oh_ ,” she added deliberately, gesturing towards the sitting chair. “Please sit down on the chair across from the couch, Harry. The green one. The one with the yellow pillow.”  
  
  
Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the easy smile that spread across his face. She’d always been able to do that – to make him smile. She was still better at it than anyone else.  
  
  
Adara cleared her throat and looked between Harry and Ginny. “I’ll just...get us some tea, then.” She pecked her wife on the cheek and shot her a saucy wink before she headed into the kitchen.  
  
  
Ginny looked a bit flustered when she faced Harry again, but she recovered remarkably quickly. He numbly realized that they were probably used to having that effect on each other.  
  
  
“ _So_ ,” Ginny started slowly, leaning forward and resting on her elbows. She peered up at him. “How’ve you been?”  
  
  
Harry squinted, thinking. “Since...three weeks ago?” Had he really been gone that long? Traveling abroad for missions always distorted his sense of time.  
  
  
Ginny shrugged. “Yeah.”  
  
  
“Er, we just got back this morning. Around 4.” He traced his finger on the velvet fabric.  
  
  
“Anything you can tell me about?” She cradled her chin in her hands and stared at him, her eyes twinkling again.  
  
  
Harry rolled his eyes playfully. “You _know_ I can’t, Ginny.”  
  
  
“Yeah. I know.”  
  
  
They paused for a moment. It was still painful, bringing that up, and Harry immediately wished he’d played it off differently.  
  
  
Because, of course, that was what had broken them up: his job.  
  
  
Well, according to _him_ that was the root cause, anyway. According to Ginny, it wasn’t _just_ his job, but the fact that his job came first...before anyone else. And though she’d never admit it, Harry knew that Ginny had been the most hurt because his job had a tendency to come before _her_.  
  
  
Harry and Ginny had taken up with each other again soon after the Battle of Hogwarts, and they’d dated very seriously that summer. In between the months of June and July, he’d discovered that physical intimacy (with someone he loved) served much more than just a carnal purpose. That connection was therapeutic – a crucial source of comfort, one that swept away the death and guilt and violence that lurked deep in the corners of his brain. Making love with her had filled the emotional void left gaping and raw inside his chest; it eliminated the empty space of _nothingness_ that had been there for as long as he could remember.  
  
  
Also, it had been hot.  
  
  
Really, _really_ hot.  
  
  
But then the summer of 1998 had ended, and Ginny had returned to Hogwarts for her final year. And, upon the reflection of a full decade, Harry could finally admit that his mental health had gone along with her.  
  
  
In the months following her departure, he simply  _hadn’t_ been able to see her every day, or to kiss her, or to tell her how much he worshipped her and adored her. They saw each other on Hogsmeade weekends, of course...but those were few and far between. And those never left time for the type of healing he really needed, especially since he and Ron always traveled to see Ginny _and_ Hermione, in some type of perpetual double-date.  
  
  
By October, Harry had grown tired of waking up screaming in the middle of the night while the Death Eaters in his mind’s eye brutally tortured and murdered everyone he loved. His bunkmates at the Auror Academy had grown tired of this particular awakening, too. After a few months, even the Dreamless Sleep potions had lost their efficacy; he hadn’t had a proper night’s rest since 31st August.

  
And so Harry reverted to doing what he’d always done. He obsessively threw himself into his work, blocking out anyone – and any _thing_ – else.  
  
  
By December 1998, he was working 16, 18, even 20 hours a day. He spent every second of his free time plowing into research and developing strategies and practicing spells. He worked through meals. He worked through Sunday dinners at the Burrow. He worked through two Hogsmeade weekends while he followed a lead on the Yaxley case.  
  
  
All-in-all, this strategy had accomplished two things: First, it had gotten rid of his nightmares; there simply _wasn’t time_ to think about anything else. Second, it had guaranteed a rapid promotion in the Auror Department. Harry hadn’t minded, not even in the slightest, that this promotion resulted in even _more_ work.  
  
  
By Christmas, he’d been offered a full position as Junior Auror, the only trainee in history to have been given that chance. He’d tried his hardest to ignore the envious whispers of his fellow trainees about _favoritism_ and how he’d only gotten the position because he was the _Chosen One.  
  
  
_ But after time, those taunts had started gnawing away at him, grinding against his psyche until his nightmares started again. And so he worked even harder than before.  
  
  
By Easter, he’d developed a new tactic. Harry was determined to _prove_ that he deserved that promotion. He was going to ensure that there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that  _being the bloody Chosen One_ was unrelated to having gotten that job, except perhaps in motivation.  
  
  
It wasn’t until mid April that he realized – with a sinking feeling in his stomach – that he hadn’t seen Ginny since Christmas. And that she hadn’t written him since February.  
  
  
In a desperate, naive attempt at fixing things, he’d made sure to attend her next Hogsmeade weekend. Ron and Hermione had made it clear that they were less than impressed with his behavior – and truth be told, they’d probably never truly forgiven him. Ginny, however, had been _livid_.

  
He’d rented a private room for the two of them at the Three Broomsticks, hoping that they would have a row, have a shag, and move on with their lives. Instead, they screamed at each other for three hours. And then broke up.  
  
  
In that room, they’d circled around to the same argument so many times that he’d lost count. Basically, Ginny was furious he’d abandoned her – _again_. And because Harry had been an 18 year old arse, he hadn’t taken this opportunity to admit that he’d only started working so hard because he loved her and missed her and cherished her so intensely that it caused him physical pain.  
  
  
Instead, he’d bellowed – actually _bellowed_ – that he’d been born into a certain responsibility to keep the world safe, and that it was bullocks for her to assume that he had chosen any part of this. At that, Ginny would circle back to  _her_ argument all over again.

  
Things finally came to a head when Ginny had darkly muttered something about how half the people he’d tried to save _hadn’t needed saving_ in the first place.  
  
  
Harry had assumed she was talking about Sirius – which would have been an exceptionally low blow – but in retrospect, she could have meant anyone, really. He never found out.  
  
  
Still, at that, Harry was thoroughly _done_. He’d roared back that if Ginny was so bloody unhappy, maybe she shouldn’t be with him in the first place.  
  
  
To his surprise (and horror), she’d agreed. Almost immediately. And that was that.  
  
  
That night, his nightmares had started again – but this time, they exclusively featured her. Throughout all of May and all of June, Harry woke up cold and sweating and screaming, thinking about Ginny being _Crucioed_ into insanity, or being outright murdered in a flash of green light that he was a millisecond too late to prevent. Sometimes, she’d derisively scream that she never really loved him, just before she died.

  
The nightmares became especially destructive whenever he was reminded of her. This normally happened when he ran into another Weasley around the Ministry. Or if he spotted someone with red hair in a crowd. Or if he caught a whiff of perfume that even vaguely smelled like flowers. All-in-all, England was a bad place to be if Harry didn’t want to be reminded of one of the largest families in the wizarding world.  
  
  
So when he was offered the chance to travel abroad for a mission in Romania, he agreed in a heartbeat. For three months, he'd camped in a cabin with six other blokes and kept his mind so busy and his body so exhausted that he didn’t have to think about her. This didn’t bother him; it seemed that the greater physical space there was between them, the less frequent his nightmares became.  
_  
  
_ Upon his return to England,Harry caught wind that Ginny had been offered a starting position on the Holyhead Harpies. He wasn’t surprised; she was supremely talented, and she’d always worked very passionately towards her goals. In a gesture of good faith, he sent her a congratulatory letter noting as much. Without waiting for a response, he set off on another mission, this time to Northern Africa.  
  
  
Six months later, _The Prophet_ featured an article about Ginny and some beautiful brunette named Adara Morgan _._ She was the daughter of retired player Valmai Morgan, but the article took special care to mention that Adara had secured the position on her own merit. It seemed that Ginny and Adara were now the star Chasers of the Harpies, and between the two of them, they’d scored more goals than any other duo in Quidditch history.  
  
  
Ginny and Adara were gazing at each other rather dreamily in the featured photo, their arms entwined, their faces mere inches apart. Something in Harry’s stomach twisted as he recognized that enraptured look on Ginny’s face.  
  
  
The next day, his suspicions were confirmed when _Witch Weekly_ snapped photos of them kissing in Diagon Alley. It was a particularly intimate scene; the tips of their noses were just touching, and a pretty blush was spreading across Ginny’s face as Adara caressed her cheek. After he’d watched Ginny bite her lip and giggle for the third straight time, Harry decided that wizarding photographs were the worst invention that the world had ever known.  
  
  
As he cursed and flung the magazine across the room, the monster in Harry’s chest – the one that had been dormant for so many years – roared back to life with such ferocity that he nearly passed out.  
  
  
Harry swore he could _actually_ feel the monster this time –it was a physical being, as real as the ground beneath his feet. He felt the beast ripping and clawing and growling as it scaled his throat, demanding release with every pulsating heartbeat. The pain in Harry’s chest was so palpable that each heaving breath ripped at his innards until finally, _finally_ he collapsed at his desk, his body wracked with sobs. That night, he cried harder than he had in years, so hard that he literally made himself sick.  
  
  
This time, though, he knew how to drown the monster– by working even harder. After one evening of agonized contemplation, he did just that.  
  
  
When he reflected back, Harry couldn’t say he was surprised that Ginny had moved on. In the back of his mind, he’d always known he hadn’t deserved her, even for the short time that he could have called her his own. Ginny was beautiful. Popular. Effervescent. Captivating in a way he’d never be. Half of Hogwarts had been in love with her; he was no exception. And besides, he’d proven, once and for all, that he simply _couldn’t_ balance a relationship – even a relationship with _Ginny bloody Weasley_ – with his career. Unlike him, she was entitled to happiness, and Harry was glad she’d found it.  
  
  
The fact that Ginny was with a woman had initially taken him aback, but he reckoned that’s just how it worked. Harry knew Ginny well enough to consider that she’d probably fallen in love with Adara as a person first; the fact that she was a woman had likely been a secondary revelation. The fact that she’d moved on _in general_ was more painful than the fact that she’d moved on with someone of the same sex.  
  
  
Harry hadn’t been given much time to stew, though. The day after the publication of the article, Kingsley had approached him about going on an extended mission – to New Zealand, this time – and thoughts of Ginny and Adara had been driven far from his mind.

  
This mission, though, had been a tad different; Ginny had started writing to him while he was abroad.

  
At first, his responses had been clipped, _angry_ , even though he had no right to be. Still, Ginny hadn’t given up; in hindsight, Harry wasn’t quite sure what else he’d expected from the daughter of Molly Weasley. It took several months of strained correspondence, but Ginny had eventually gotten him to talk. He finally discussed his feelings and admitted why he’d shut her out in the first place, even though she’d made it clear that their romantic relationship would never be rekindled again.  
  
  
After several _more_ months, Ginny had convinced him to go to therapy. This was a choice made easier when she also revealed that she and Adara were now engaged. Harry’s former coping strategy – going as far away from her as possible and throwing himself into his work – was no longer enough; Ginny had followed him halfway across the world, if only in his thoughts.  
  
  
By the time he returned to the continent a full year later, he’d learned – through the help of mental health professionals – how to make some improvements in how he handled things like loss and work/life balance. He’d even dated a bit here and there – nothing serious, nothing intimate, but it was progress, nevertheless. By now, though, he’d established himself as a highly-skilled Auror, one who’d been granted the highest of clearances. Declining missions was simply not an option, and indefinite travel didn’t tend to sit well with women looking for serious relationships.  
  
  
Truthfully, that was fine with him; as far as Harry was concerned, he’d already been given his chance with someone he loved. He was fairly confident that he’d never find that again, even if Ginny had.  
  
  
These days, he actually prided himself on being close with Ginny and Adara.

  
Well, maybe not exactly _close..._ but closer than he was with nearly anyone else. He’d even been in their wedding party, and he thought that showed a decent amount of personal growth from the man who’d made himself vomit when he’d found out Ginny was dating again. On their wedding day, he _almost_ managed to be happier for them than he was disappointed and wistful for himself. Regardless, he thought he’d put on a good front.  
  
  
And the two of them were good for each other – he couldn’t deny that. Their personalities were balanced, the perfect blend of soft and hard, of vivacious and demure. Ginny and Adara were the first people he checked in with when he returned from missions. He often thought, a little sadly, that they were the only ones who would really miss him if anything went awry. Everything in his inheritance had been left to them long ago, even though he was sure they had no idea.  
  
  
So when they had anxiously approached him six months ago and asked if he’d be their sperm donor, he’d agreed without much thought. Once upon a time, he’d been certain that he wanted his own family. Today, that was a frank impossibility. Raising his own children would simply not be an option; he traveled abroad roughly two-thirds of the year. Kids deserved better than that.  
  
  
Still, though, he didn’t hate the idea of being in a child’s life, or the idea of that child being biologically related to him. He knew that Ginny and Adara would make excellent parents, and he was honored that they’d even considered him. They were the most stable constant in his life, after all, and he’d like for them to remain that way, so long as his role was clearly understood from the beginning.

  
The three of them settled the details of the... _transaction_...with solicitors that same day. Before leaving for his mission the following week, Harry had dutifully provided them with a sample, just as the legal documents had indicated he would. Ginny and Adara had thanked and hugged him profusely, which he’d found a bit excessive. It wasn’t like he’d actually _done_ anything he didn’t already do on a fairly regular basis.  
  
  
And besides, it wasn’t like Harry was a complete altruist in all of this. With any luck, he’d be getting a biological child out of it – something he had long since resigned himself to never having. On a more awkward note, Harry had also been thinking of...certain things...while he’d provided that sample, and he still felt rather guilty about taking credit.   
  
  
Adara cleared her throat and came back into the room. Harry blushed in spite of himself and stared at the table as Ginny's wife placed the tea tray down in front of him; he'd never been happier neither of them was a Legilimens. In an effort to remember his manners, he smiled and thanked her as she and Ginny settled down on the couch. Adara wrapped one arm around Ginny and clasped her hand with the other. They turned to him expectantly, their faces beaming.  
  
  
He wasn’t a complete idiot; he had an _inkling_ of what this was all about...   
  
  
“ _Ok_ , Harry,” Adara began slowly. She took a deep breath before proceeding. “Before anyone else, we wanted to be the ones to tell you that –”  
  
  
“ – I’m  _pregnant_!” Ginny blurted excitedly. Adara let out a gentle laugh at her outburst and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. They turned to each other, grinning, their faces alight with so much love and gaiety that Harry almost felt like an intruder.  
  
  
...but, Merlin, had he _ever_ seen Ginny this thrilled? The mirth was practically radiating off of her in waves. Joyful tears starting to twinkle in the corners of her eyes as a contagious grin spread across her face.  
  
  
“ _Yeah_?” he asked, as much to remind them he was there as to confirm it for himself.  
  
  
Ginny and Adara turned back to him, bobbing their heads fervently, and in the next instant – as if they’d communicated about it – the three of them were standing up and hugging and crying together, like nothing had ever filled them with a greater sense of purpose.  
  
  
Which, he reckoned, was probably accurate.  
  
  
He pulled back from them after a few minutes, wiping his eyes, and muttered something about how he’d _better be going_. It wasn’t strictly true, but he knew they’d rather be alone; they’d been all over each other since before he’d even come inside.  
  
  
They each offered him a bone-crushing hug and made him _promise_ to come by tomorrow, or at least before he took off again. He smiled and assured them that, _yes_ , he’d make sure to do that.  
  
  
He then left their flat, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips as he Apparated and stepped into his own apartment.  
  
  
For the first time in nearly ten years, Harry realized that he finally was at peace.  
  
  
Seeing the look of pure elation on Ginny’s faced had confirmed something that he’d been considering for a long time: He now knew – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that he _never_ could have made her that happy.   
  
  
But he was pleased that Ginny had found that. He was even _more_ pleased that she’d found that in someone else, someone who didn’t detract from her warmth and exuberance, someone who didn’t make her question if she was truly happy.  
  
  
In another life, Harry had basked in her glow, spent his days surrounded by the eternal sunshine that was Ginny Weasley. Today, he was just thankful that he got to share a sliver of that light. He’d been gifted with the chance to make her life a little better, to help ease a smile onto her face, to provide her with something – _any_ thing – that might make her feel more complete.  
  
  
And he’d be content to continue doing that, for as long as she’d let him.


	3. Landslide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the first two chapters! I appreciate all feedback :) 
> 
> Hoo boy...this chapter turned out a lot darker than I anticipated! To be safe, I have changed this story to an M rating. 
> 
> TW: Alcoholism, anxiety/depression/PTSD, violence, language, death...the list goes on, really. No graphic sexual content.

Harry sipped the wretched, bitter coffee and stared out the window, the flashing lights of the fast food restaurant reflecting in the glass. It was an odd combination, he thought— the bright, cheery lighting, trying so earnestly to make a dent against the damp and dark. It was shaping up to be a particularly brutal autumn in England. He furtively glanced at his watch. Ginny was supposed to have arrived with the boys five minutes ago, although why she'd insisted on meeting here as opposed the house was beyond him.

Harry shuddered and caught himself. Not  _the_  house—  _her_  house. The one they lived in,  _alone,_ without him. It was a home in Godric's Hollow that they'd bought together, back when they were fresh and young and full of hope. Or, in Harry's case,  _slightly_  more full of hope.

The whole situation still made him sick to his stomach. Not that there was anything to do for it now.

Still, in the past six months, his relationship with his estranged wife had gotten better. No one could deny that. He and Ginny were actually on speaking terms, communicating about things beyond childcare and bedtime routines. Quite recently, they'd even enjoyed a meal together.  _If you could call it that._  He smiled a little slyly and allowed his mind to travel to that Sunday night when he'd gotten some real tangible proof that she still had feelings for him— or, at the very least, a feeling beyond animosity.

He'd been running late dropping off their sons, and he'd been so certain of Ginny's resulting fury that he'd bought flowers to soften the blow. To his surprise, though, she'd just been happy he'd wanted to spend even more time with his family. Of course, she'd also been adorably tipsy off the wine she'd used to prepare dinner, so that had greased the wheels a bit.

She'd even invited him inside and asked if he'd like to entertain the boys while she finished cooking. Then they'd eaten,  _together_ , like a real family, and gotten the boys off to bed  _together_ , like a real family. And in a turn of events Harry hadn't anticipated at all, they'd proceeded to have what was (probably) the best sex of their entire lives on the stairs, using hands and mouths to muffle the groan of their mutual release.

The next morning, though, Ginny had been a tad more distant, a tad more cautious. Despite Harry's protests, she'd insisted that he return to his flat so the boys wouldn't be "confused" to find him there. He'd begrudgingly complied, but the experience had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Almost as bitter as the coffee he was drinking.

Harry made a face as he took another sip. It was amazing that people who weren't filled with self-loathing drank this rubbish on a regular basis. At least he had an excuse.

He craned his neck around a bit towards the door, hoping to catch Ginny if— ah,  _yes_... there she was. A lazy smile spread across Harry's face as Ginny entered the restaurant, toddlers in tow. While she bent to remove their coats and mittens, he allowed himself a moment to drink her in, his mind pleasantly fuzzy with warm contentment. She really  _was_  beautiful— more beautiful than ever, in Harry's opinion. Her hair was tied in a low plait, and a green jumper stretched snugly across her chest. That particular part of her had never  _quite_  returned to pre-baby size. Not that Harry was complaining.

Harry hadn't even realized he'd been leering at her until James' excited shriek ripped him from his thoughts.

"DADA!" The two-year-old dropped Ginny's hand and ran to his father, full-speed ahead. Harry stood, laughing, and opened his arms as James’ body-slammed into his knees, his little face alight with happiness.

Their second son took a little longer to reach him, but he wasn't far behind his brother. "DAAA!" he squealed, his tiny legs pumping unsteadily before he collapsed into Harry's embrace.

" _Hey_ ," Harry chuckled, stooping to kiss each of them on their heads. "How are you two?"

"They're fine," slinked Ginny's voice from up behind them. Her tone was clipped, _distant_  even... closer to how she'd sounded six months ago than how she'd sounded in recent weeks. Harry looked up, confused, but she refused to meet his gaze.

She cleared her throat. "Boys? Let's go play in the ball pit, yeah? Daddy and I need to have  _a chat_." Her eyes finally flitted over to meet Harry's, but it wasn't a warm or welcoming stare like he'd hoped. Instead, her eyes were cool, businesslike, as if she barely knew him.

Harry tried to ignore the hurt feeling that had blossomed at her perfunctory request, and sank into the booth again as the kids ran towards the play place. Ginny settled on the plastic bench across from him, draping her coat over her lap. Harry pushed the hot chocolate he'd gotten for her across the table. She just looked at it, unblinking.

"So... how've  _you_  been?" he asked tentatively.

Ginny's face was pale and impassive as she continued staring down at the styrofoam cup. Harry was more than a little perplexed— both by her attitude and her refusal to answer him. She'd clearly heard the question. He was about to give her another prod, to broach it another way, when—

"I'm pregnant," she whispered. Only the smallest hint of fragility was detectable in her tone. She cleared her throat. "Harry. I'm  _pregnant."_  The second time, her voice was stronger.

Harry swallowed and looked at her bowed head. "You're...  _pregnant,_ " he repeated slowly.

Perhaps if he said the words as haltingly as possible, they'd register. For now, though, all he was capable of doing was staring at her dumbly, his mouth slightly agape, his heart pounding in his chest.

"How—?"

"Six weeks." Ginny cleared her throat and wiped her fingertip on the table. She lifted her head and squinted at something over Harry's shoulder, still avoiding his gaze. "I'll be six weeks. Tomorrow."

Harry let out a wheezy chuckle and counted back. "So that would have been... what? September?"

" _Yes_ ," she confirmed quickly, biting her lip.

But then, something else occurred to him— something he didn't quite want to ask. Something he didn't  _quite_ want an answer to, lest it confirm his biggest fears. Not that he had any  _right_  to have fears or doubts about it...

"I know you want to ask me something," she blurted, cutting across his thoughts. She was now staring him full in the face, her eyes narrowed. "That's always the face you make when you want to know something, but don't know how to ask. Under normal circumstances, I'd play the guessing game, but to be honest, I really don't feel well." She huffed out a breath and started fanning herself.

Harry shook his head, scratching the back of his neck with his hand. "No. It doesn't matter."

Ginny snorted and glanced over at the boys, who seemed to be occupied in the ball pit. "Whatever it is most  _certainly_  matters or you wouldn't have made that particular face.

"Fine," he muttered, feeling like he'd been backed into a corner. " _Fine_." He cleared his throat, glancing over his shoulder.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Out with it."

Harry groaned. He didn't want to presume— he really didn't. But this was something that would eat away at him until he knew for sure. What was it that his therapist had said last week? How it was better to confront his feelings instead of holding them in?

Harry sighed.  _Fine._  Ginny wanted the question? She'd  _get_  the bloody question.

So he cleared his throat and muttered, " _Am I the—_?"

The words left him in such a rush if felt they'd sucked the wind from his lungs. He slammed his eyes shut. Contrary to the bravado he'd summoned to ask the question, he didn't feel like a Gryffindor, not now... he'd been too afraid to even  _voice_  the last part. He was content to leave it at that, hoping that she'd figure out what he'd meant.

But after a few moments of dark silence, Harry's mind began racing. What hadn't she responded? Ginny wasn't the quiet type, she knew how terrible he was at inferring emotions. Did this confirm, then, that she  _had_  been with someone else?  _Shit_. If she had, Harry was liable to vomit, right on the spot. The thought of another man's lips tasting the freckles on her jaw, of another man's hands gliding over the soft swell of her hips...

His stomach roiled and pitched. It was too much for him to take. Harry cracked open a single eye, not entirely sure what he'd see.

But to his surprise, Ginny was just staring at him open-mouthed, a look of outrage and bewilderment smacked across her face.

"Oh for  _fu_ — _!"_ She threw her hands in the air. "That's seriously your question? _"_ She sucked her teeth, disgusted. " _Merlin_ , Harry, I really assumed you were asking when it was  _due,_  or if I was finding out the sex, or any number of reasonable things one might ask when presented with a pregnancy announcement."

"Oh," Harry muttered, staring at the table again. His face was burning.

"Yes,  _oh_ ," she snapped. Something electric fizzled in her eyes. Even in his abject embarrassment, Harry found his hand inching closer to his wand before he'd realized it.

But Ginny wasn't done.

"Do you seriously think I'm that much of a slag?" she demanded, nostrils flaring. "I just  _told you_  it was September, prat! You actually think I would've slept with someone else within 48 hours of shagging you?"

Harry's face was now as red as Ginny's hair. " _Sorry._ " He relaxed his grip on his wand. " _Sorry_. I didn't mean...all I  _meant_...was that..." Harry rubbed his hand on the back of his neck again.

What  _else_  had the therapist told him? About being  _honest_  with her? Harry took a deep breath. Well, that advice hadn't worked the first time. Or maybe he hadn't applied it correctly. Or maybe he  _had_  been exceptionally rude. Or maybe Ginny's hormones had played a part in her response. Who the hell knew?

But really, honesty was all he had left. So he tried again.

"You're beautiful." He stared down at this coffee, not quite confident enough to look at her. She hadn't interrupted yet; Harry took this as a good sign. "And I've been in love with you since I was 16," he added softly. "But I know I don't even come close to deserving you.  _So_."

He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Ginny, if you'd found someone else, someone who  _did_  deserve you, it would kill me. But I guess I'd...understand."

His voice broke at the end and he blinked against the tears that pricked his eyes. A year ago, he would've tried coughing and pretending he wasn't upset. Now, though, he didn't care; he'd already lost everything.

When he finally glanced back up, Ginny was peering at him intensely. He couldn't quite suss out what that look meant – it was somewhere in between blazing and critical. But she wasn't furious, not like she'd been before.

She cleared her throat again. "I don't need to dignify your ludicrous question with a response,  _but_..." She trailed off, fiddling with her fingernails. Her tone was softer now, like all the venom had suddenly left, like she no longer had the energy to put up a front of aloof indifference. Was that a good thing? Harry didn't know anymore.

There was a beat of silence.

And then: "I've still never been with anyone else," she admitted quietly, still staring at her hands. "Ever. So if it— if  _the bab_ y," she corrected, "isn't yours, we've got much bigger problems."

Harry visibly sagged with relief from across the table as his forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He knew had no  _right_  to feel relieved; they were now legally separated, and Ginny was an extremely independent, attractive woman. If she'd chosen to pursue another romantic partner, that was her business. Full stop.

Of course, the prideful male part of him completely disagreed with that assessment and was quite chuffed that it was  _his_  child she was carrying. Harry made the conscious choice to ignore that particular facet of his personality.

"Ok," he said, shrugging. "Well. I want you to know that I've never been with anyone else either...never even wanted to. So." He spread his palms in acquiescence. "I guess that...settles things?"

Ginny snorted and glanced out the rainy window. "If lacking other sexual partners was our biggest problem, I think we'd have stumbled upon a solution by now."

Harry couldn't stop the gentle laughter from bubbling past his lips as he relaxed back against the seat. She was certainly right on that count; at this point, he'd lusted after her for nearly half his life. Not that it had helped things.

Another baby, though? Harry shot her a soppy grin from across the table.  _Yeah,_ he liked the sound of that. She was still staring at the two they already had, but he didn't mind. He was just happy to be in her presence, honored that she'd ever agreed to date him in the first place all those years ago...  _thrilled_ , actually, that things had turned out this way. Maybe this was the universe's way of providing what they really needed – an even larger, bigger brood to love.

" _So_?" he prompted, his heart lighter than it had been in ages.

"Mm?" Ginny was looking pale again and had gone back to fanning herself.

Harry drained what was left of his coffee and offered her a hopeful smile. "When can I come back?"

But Ginny stopped fanning herself and stared at him. The crease between her eyebrows told him she was confused...why was she confused?

" _Oh_ ," she whispered a second later, her brown eyes wide. He thought he saw a ghost of a smile flit across her face, but it was gone in an instant. Ginny cleared her throat. " _Harry_ ," she began bracingly. He got the distinct impression that she was nervous, but she plowed on, even as her voice shook.

"You're not moving back in."

Her words fell heavy in the air between them as Harry's smile slid from his face. His stomach ached like he'd suddenly been punched in the gut. Had someone just let a Dementor into this rubbish little restaurant? Had it somehow sucked the soul straight from his mouth without him noticing? He didn't understand how it was possible to go from being so excited,  _so_  overjoyed, to feeling like he wanted to chuck himself in the nearest muddy ditch as his heart ripped itself open.

"I'm—I'm  _not_?" He was still hoping he'd misunderstood.

She shook her head again and squinted. James was now throwing a red ball at some little girl's head, but she didn't seem to notice. "This... _it..._ the baby...doesn't change anything," she clarified. For the first time, she actually looked a bit apologetic. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd...get that."

Bitter waves of dread replaced the happiness he'd so naively allowed to fill his chest. "Why the hell would I have  _gotten that_ , Ginny?" he demanded. "And since we're on the subject of the fact that  _you're bloody pregnant_ , why would it make more sense for you to be alone with two toddlers and an infant when I'm perfectly capable, when I  _want_  –"

"— _Harry_ ," Ginny cut in, her voice dangerously low. Those little pulses of electricity were starting to spark behind her eyes again; he'd certainly seen that look often enough to know what it meant. "We've been through this before."

Harry barked out a humorless laugh. " _Have_  we? Have we  _really_? Because last I checked, I've never gotten you pregnant and expected you to raise a baby by yourself."

She arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "You sure about that one?"

Harry swallowed and looked away. He couldn't believe he'd said that— he'd walked right into it. What a complete tosser he was. And yet, he still felt the need to put up a defense.  _Unbelievable_.

"You know what I mean," he said weakly.

Ginny raised a brow again. "No," she said coolly. Her arms remained fully crossed. " _No_ , Harry, I'm not sure I do. Because last _I_  checked, you were rather excellent at— how did you put it— getting me pregnant and expecting me to raise a baby by myself?"

Harry groaned and slammed his head back. He sometimes thought she took a bit of sick pleasure in doing this – in rehashing the things that made him feel like the worst possible human being alive. Of course, she wasn't far from the mark. He had to admit that much.

The truth was that the war had changed him. And not for the best.

Everyone who'd been at Hogwarts on May 2nd, 1998 had been traumatized – that much was a given. It would have been impossible to witness that much death and destruction without  _some_ residual psychological damage.

In his teenaged naivete, Harry had actually allowed himself to believe that he'd been spared from the brunt of it. For nearly 24 hours after the battle, he'd actually thought that he might be ok, that his scars were more external than internal.

That all changed when he took a shower on May 3rd.

The survivors had been up all night in the Great Hall– talking, crying, hugging, wishing things had been different. Harry hadn't even realized it was mid-afternoon until Ginny had suggested bathing. She'd noted that the hot water would help to relax his tired muscles, that it would clean out his cuts and scrapes and abrasions. Of course, she'd also casually mentioned that she'd be showering in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, too, and that he'd be welcome to find her as soon as he was done. Harry hadn't needed much convincing after that.

He still couldn't remember much of that shower, but it must've been oddly satisfying to watch all that coated grime and blood swirl down the drain, all that dirt washing away from whence it came. Harry reckoned he'd then turned off the taps, reached for a towel, and stepped into the steam, as he'd done his whole life.

However, that was pure conjecture, because all he really recalled about the entire experience was that he'd caught a glimpse of his own reflection – of his bright green eyes glimmering through the steam— before everything promptly went to hell.

He collapsed on the tiles an instant later. His head pounded and bled from where it been cudgeled against the marble during his rapid descent. Without conscious thought, sobs wracked through his entire crumpled fetal-positioned body. Everything was spinning, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see – the steam was so thick, so much thicker than he'd realized. He scratched at this throat, eyes bulging out of his head, certain that he was going to die. How was it  _possible_  that he hadn't died?

And that's when the scenes started playing, ghastly images that flashed against the backs of his eyelids, ones that flicked through in rapid succession like some sort of macabre imitation of a carousel. He laid there like a little baby, a prone victim, completely paralyzed against the whims of his own mind...and, as he learned that day, his mind was  _dark_.

For the first time that he could remember, Harry was completely defenseless. His wand was beside him, but it wouldn't have helped. Who was he supposed to save, really, when there was nothing left to attack? His body had turned on him, and his own eyes were the trigger. He was forced to watch as his mother's ghostly, blinking stare followed him into the Forbidden Forest to meet his death. Then there was the scene of a black-haired toddler who whimpered and cried for his mummy, even as her green eyes stared up the ceiling, cold and unblinking. Oh and look, there were all the people who'd just died, all on account of that  _idiotic_  green-eyed boy who'd been too much of a coward to come forward sooner. And all the while, the final, agonized screams of Severus Snape roared through his head.

Harry wasn't sure when, exactly, Ginny had found him. He knew that he'd eventually smelled flowers instead of burning rubble, and that her soothing whispers had slowly replaced the dying moans reverberating in his ears. He'd come to several hours later with his head pressed firmly against her chest, his body clothed only by a loose towel she'd wrapped around his waist. He was, of course, humiliated, and spent many excruciating minutes trying to apologize before Ginny silenced him with a kiss. Then, he pulled back from her warm lips, stared her in the face, and confessed that he was in love with her. Things between the two of them progressed fairly quickly after that.

From that day forward, though, Harry learned to avoid mirrors; he had all of them removed from Grimmauld Place before the funerals even started. The potential consequences of seeing himself in a public place – or in  _any_  place – were too horrendous and mortifying to consider, especially if Ginny wasn't around to help him. As such, in the following weeks, he figured out ways to evade the sight of his own eyes. This wasn't as hard to accomplish as he'd thought it would be – he just looked at himself as little as possible. Glass panels and really reflective windows and even some water surfaces were things he took special care to bypass. At the time, he hadn't seen this as pathetic; he'd seen it as survival. Unfortunately, though, sidestepping his own reflection was the closest he got to healing for a long, long time.

Harry and Ginny moved into Grimmauld Place when the funerals were over, but this experience was a far cry from being intimate or romantic. Harry spent most nights wearing a hole in the antique carpets as he paced back and forth, brow furrowed, muttering to himself. Ginny, who started sleeping with him almost immediately, was remarkably tolerant of the fact that her boyfriend rarely—if ever— actually  _slept_. She'd been remarkably tolerant of nearly everything, actually. Of course, he had been too lost to appreciate this.

Instead, Harry obsessively focused on the fact that it seemed every other survivor had slowly started to recover in the weeks and months following the Battle of Hogwarts. These others were gradually able to sleep at night without the Fallen Fifty-Two being slaughtered in their dreams. They could do simple things like feel the progression of time or see the seasons change. They weren't surrounded by this all-encompassing cloud of numbness, this impenetrable grey barrier that hung over their heads and refused to allow contact with joy or excitement, even though these lighter feelings pushed themselves up against that barrier as hard as they could.

Harry supposed that other survivors were also able to get paper cuts without immediately flashing back to the sight of blood dripping down Fenrir Greyback's delirious, grinning face. It was probable that  _other people_  could easily handle seeing a skinned knee or a hangnail in their day-to-day lives without being transported to that awful, wretched day— the one in which Harry had been granted the dubious title of victor, even as the ashen bodies of underage students had lain in pools of deep scarlet. Harry had never confirmed as much, but even years later,  _the others_  could feasibly hear that their girlfriends or wives had gotten their periods without being so damn triggered by the thought of blood that they'd actually run from the house and refused to return for a full week.

Of course, even in his darkest moments, Harry could concede that there was some speculation involved in making those types of assumptions. What didn't require speculation, though, was the fact that he was the only person alive who'd been cursed with the eyes of his dead mother, and that he'd still have to avoid seeing those eyes for as long as he lived.

All those nights of pacing and brooding turned him turned bitter, paranoid, even  _aggressive_. Not with Ginny, thank God—  _never_ with Ginny. The remaining members of the Weasley clan would've murdered him before that case even got to trial, and to be honest, Harry probably would have killed himself— and for good, this time— if that had happened. Nevertheless, it was there in Grimmauld Place that Harry turned into the worst possible version of himself, one he hadn't seen since he was 15...only now, he had access to alcohol.

By August 1998, Harry had already gotten into multiple drunken bar fights with complete strangers. By September, he required a chaperone on almost all outings. It was fortunate that Hogwarts hadn't been ready for attendance by then, because he almost certainly would have gotten into legal trouble if Ginny hadn't been there to restrain him with a wave of her wand. There were several occasions in which he was full-body bound to prevent the pummeling of various tabloid journalists. It soon became common knowledge around  _Witch Weekly_  headquarters that Harry Potter could be baited into a headline story with so much as a whisper about the Fallen Fifty-Two.

For the next two years, Harry drifted from one meaningless Ministry job to the next. He was fired from most of them within a couple of months; arriving drunk or hungover to the workplace was simply intolerable, Chosen One or not. And despite his foolhardy teenaged desires to enter law enforcement, the war had left him splintered, broken. He hadn't been able to pull himself out of the mounting darkness in his head for long enough to consider what might make things better. In lieu of any form of healing, Harry would work for a couple of months, get fired, go on a bender, and repeat the process again.

Unbelievably, through all of it, Ginny stuck by him— this was one of the many,  _many_  reasons he didn't deserve her. She spent those years consoling him and keeping him hydrated and staying up late with him on nights when things were especially bad. She was hurting and broken too, of course, but she had the emotional intelligence to realize when the pain was too much. She sought therapy almost immediately, and repeatedly encouraged Harry to do the same. At the time, he'd been too weak to take her up on that.

When Harry was finally presented with an Auror position in early 2000, he wasn't sure he could handle it. Years had passed since the battle, but shadows still occasionally crept into his head like a poisonous fog, blurring the edges of reality, making him question everything he knew. Kingsley must have seen some potential, though, because he gave him a frank ultimatum: Harry could work for the Aurors – and  _actually_  work – or the Ministry would do everything in their power to permanently dissociate themselves from him. No matter how much rubbish someone had lived through, being an alcoholic loose canon wasn't easily forgivable by a public who had just learned to trust again.

Harry chose the first option.

Much to his surprise, it was the only job that stuck. Just as Ginny had predicted, working to overcome darkness was considerably better than just wallowing in it, day after day, and Harry slowly learned to face his inner demons by tackling demons of the more literal variety. Within a few months, he was actually confronting evil and taking real action to make the world a little better. For the first time in a long time, Harry felt refreshed, exhilarated, even  _addicted_. He supposed he should have seen the trouble brewing, even back then.

By late 2000, Harry wasn't drinking anymore; his time at the Ministry had completely replaced his time spent in pubs. In fact, he was  _ravenous_  for more work, and volunteered for absolutely anything at the drop of a hat. He particularly loved the tougher cases, because he knew he'd have to work twice as hard to find justice. The more hope he could provide, the better he felt, and the better he felt, the less he drank.

Ginny had been completely on board with this, especially when he'd stopped drinking. She even tolerated him missing holidays and family events and anniversaries. She'd never been big on huge displays of affection just for the sake of pageantry. She knew Harry loved her, and she knew she loved him, and whenever he'd roll into town from a mission, they would spend blissful days making up for those events they'd missed. Besides that, she had her own life – a professional quidditch career, an extended family to help rebuild, nieces and nephews to love. By mid 2001, he was gone for weeks and months at a time, but Ginny still hadn't let this bother her much. She knew he was closer to being happy than he'd been since that fateful day in May, all those years ago.

However, seeds of doubt began planting themselves in her head around the time that  _Witch Weekly_  ran an article accusing Harry of having an affair with a co-worker. In her heart, Ginny knew this was a ludicrous suggestion; the journalists— if you could even call them that – had been thirsty for gossip since he'd quit drinking. Moreover, she and Harry had always had the type of relationship that transcended petty nonsense. They knew each other better than anyone else; if he were even the slightest bit  _interested_  in having an affair, she'd know. Simple as that.

Nevertheless, the article forced Ginny to confront her boyfriend about their future plans— although this was a mission quite easily accomplished, so perhaps "confront" wasn't the best term. Harry had skated back into town one night in late 2002, and they were enjoying the type of languid, mid-afternoon intimacy that only comes after the frantic bits have worked themselves out. After one of these sessions, Ginny simply lifted her head from Harry's chest and point-blank asked if he ever intended to marry her. Harry paused thoughtfully, like hadn't really considered the question before, but then easily responded with "sure." And that was that.

Their wedding wasn't anything special. Everyone they knew had been invited, but few people had shown up. This was a hazard, Harry supposed, of becoming an alcoholic and ruining most of your lifelong relationships.

Ginny's first pregnancy fell somewhere on the spectrum between planned and accidental; they hadn't been overly careful, but it wasn't an entirely anticipated event, either. It happened on May 2nd, 2003, and they'd both been drinking heavily. Harry had stopped drinking on a daily basis, but that particularly wretched anniversary always called for it. When Ginny got a positive test in early June, neither one of them could remember having used contraception that night.

He was there for the beginning of her pregnancy with James— doing the expectant dad thing, as best he knew how. He actually cut back on his hours and negotiated things with Kingsley and Robards to put other Aurors on various missions, just in case.

But by Ginny's third trimester, Harry's mind started whirring again. He talked himself into the same cycle of depression and exasperation and fear that had plagued him for so many years of his life. The excuse he gave himself was that he'd be a rubbish father, completely unable to protect his family, just like his own father had been.

The reality, though, was that Harry feared he wouldn't be able to protect his family from  _himself_. He'd gotten better about basic, pathetic things like looking in the mirror and seeing his own eyes, but it still wasn't something he liked to dwell on. What if he had a flashback, right in the middle of holding the baby? It was a possibility too dreadful to consider. So he didn't.

Instead, he started throwing himself into work, even harder than before– staying at the office for long hours, volunteering for the same missions that he had just put other people on, keeping his mind as future-focused as possible, even as he left the continent within a week of Ginny's due date. He was there when James was born, but she was already pushing as he burst through the door; he merely swooped in at the last minute, having participated in none of the (literal) labor. That was a fact she'd never let him forget.

As a result, Harry's bond with James was strained in the very beginning. He felt guilty— overwhelmingly, devastatingly guilty, for absolutely everything he'd ever done. It was hard for him to look at the baby's messy black head without seeing himself at that age, without considering that his life had been marked by grief and sadness when he hadn't been much older. The panic attacks (as Harry had eventually learned they were called) returned soon after James was born. Harry's coping mechanism was to work even harder; this addiction had simply fallen into place just as the other was extinguished. And it was about then when Ginny's seemingly endless supply of patience had started running out.

Her second pregnancy was a complete accident, full stop. Then again, Harry didn't reckon many people got pregnant on purpose when their first child was only three months old. Molly and Arthur, who sensed the two were having trouble, volunteered to watch the baby for them after Harry returned from a mission. It was fortunate that James hadn't been there, because the Potters fought bitterly,  _loudly_ , that night about Harry's commitment issues and declining mental health and his insistence on working even though he didn't need to. The row finally ended when Harry collapsed, sobbing, at Ginny's feet.

Through his tears, he admitted that he needed the type of help only a professional could really provide. It had been an emotionally wrought moment, a revelation, of sorts— and after staring at each other for several heated seconds, they'd come together in such a passionate embrace that they'd literally ripped clothing in their haste to find each other again. Protection against pregnancy hadn't even crossed their minds.

Ginny finally told him about it when he got back from another mission eight weeks later. She blurted it out at the kitchen table, looking in equal parts shell-shocked, horrified, and nauseated. From her white-faced appearance alone, it was clear she'd spent all day agonizing over how to tell him, probably while James had shrieked in her ear. She had a distinctly perturbed, haunted look in her eyes, like she wasn't quite sure which way was up.

Harry's behaviors that followed were ones that he'd regretted every second since.

Had he rubbed Ginny's back and offered to get her some ginger biscuits? Had he volunteered to take the baby so she could at least have a lie-down? Had he held her hand and reassured her,  _promised_ her, that everything would be ok, no matter what she decided?

No.

Harry hadn't been able to do  _any_  of that.

Because the second he caught sight of Ginny's hunched shoulders, her pale face, her trembling lips— by all accounts quite similar to how she'd looked that fateful, terrible day – he was jolted to a flashback far worse than Colin Creevey's tiny crumpled body or even the lifeless forms of Remus and Tonks.

He'd been forced to relive the murders of Ron and Hermione.

And as much as Harry hated reliving all of the other parts of the Battle of Hogwarts, the part he always skipped over – even when he recounted the events to himself, even when he raked his mind back through those painful first years after the war— was the part where he'd lost his best friends. Now, though, there was no room left for denial; Harry saw them being killed right in front of him, powerless to stop the events from unfolding again in front of his eyes, even as he sat in his house, as far removed as he could be.

Ron was the first to go. It happened at the tail end, after Hermione had snogged him over the house elves, after most of the other meaningless fodder had sorted itself out. Of course it happened at the end: It would have been too much of the universe to expect them to have true happiness, wouldn't it? They'd spent seven years flirting and bickering and pining over each other. Apparently, seven years wasn't long enough.

One of the remaining Death Eaters (maybe Yaxley) cast a killing curse in Hermione's direction while Harry was still disguised under the Invisibility Cloak. The whole thing was over before he knew it was happening. Harry was only able to watch, horrorstruck, as Ron Weasley – the same one who'd had dirt on his nose and vomited slugs and been imprisoned beneath the lake by the Merpeople— used himself as a body shield, throwing Hermione to the ground as he absorbed the blow. The last things Harry remembered of the life of his best friend – of his  _first_ friend – was the glint of green light reflecting in the whites of his eyes. Ron was dead before he hit the ground, but the sickening thud of his body slamming against the stone played in Harry's head on repeat, the nauseating  _squelch_  echoing like a broken record.

But even in the aftermath, as Hermione sank to her knees, screaming, and grabbed Ron and sobbed and tried repeatedly casting  _Rennervate_ , Harry couldn't deny that he'd known what he was doing. Ron hadn't hesitated, not for a second, to take the curse himself, even if it meant that he'd never get to say goodbye to the girl he'd loved since boyhood. He'd died with the tiniest smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Harry knew that look well: He was proud. And as furious and distraught and anguished as Harry was, could he really blame Ron for going out he way he'd have wanted?

Hermione hadn't lasted long after that. From the look of grim determination on her face, Harry knew that Ron's death distorted something inside of her; it changed her irrevocably, made her a different person, forced a disconnect between her brain and her heart. She promptly abandoned her precariously-controlled, overly-cautious tendencies, and went charging into battle without even considering what might have been lurking in the shadows. Within minutes, Bellatrix finished the job she'd started at Malfoy Manor. This time, at least Hermione hadn't been in any pain; those two words washed over her far more quickly than  _Crucio_  had. Privately, Harry thought that Hermione might've done it on purpose, but this wasn't exactly something he'd be able to share.

Harry was also subjected to a repeat of their burial. He got to watch their pale faces disappear behind the casket lids, watch as their lifeless hands finally intertwined, watch as Molly Weasley literally had a nervous breakdown at the funeral, watch them disappear, forever, into the dirt.

His best friends.

Harry had woken up the next day in Saint Mungo's under magical restraints. Apparently, the shock of the announcement combined with the sight of Ginny's pallid expression had triggered what was called an explicit flashback under Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He'd passed out at the table, screaming until he'd lost his voice. The doctors had placed him on a mandatory psychiatric hold for a week. Harry had insisted on staying a fortnight.

This condition — PTSD, as they called it — was something that could be treated, if Harry wanted to invest the time and energy to do so. By the time Ginny and James came to visit two days later, Harry had already met with several mental health professionals. He'd tried to pass this off as receiving actual ongoing therapy, but Ginny hadn't been fooled. She finally informed him, under no uncertain terms, that she'd reached her hard limit with Harry's mental health when it came to putting her children in danger. Harry sneered at how she'd said that ( _her_  children) and pointed out that he'd been the biggest danger to himself. She shook her head a bit sadly and tried to tell him that was basically the same thing, but he hadn't listened. Because he was a complete arsehole.

Harry was discharged after two weeks, but instead of receiving treatment like he should, like Ginny said he  _needed_  to, he simply went off on another mission and refused to confront his actual problems. Now though he had an actual reason to stay away. He was a danger to his family, wasn't he? At least while he was away, he was doing  _some_  good in the world. Staying at home was only subjecting his pregnant wife to more stress, and that was the last thing she needed. Besides, Ginny had always been really independent, really capable, much stronger than he was. Within a few weeks, he'd convinced himself that she and James were simply better off.

Harry came back into town a few times while she was pregnant. But not many. By now, he was even more afraid, even  _more_  terrified that he'd do something awful and cause greater harm to her and the baby. Ginny had always insisted that this was utter nonsense, but again, he hadn't listened. If only he'd taken his head out of his  _arse_ , just one goddamn time –

—" _MAAA!_ "

Ron's wails yanked Harry from his pained reverie. The toddler was charging towards the two of them as fast as he could, tears pouring down his cheeks. Harry's heart lurched in his throat at the sight of his baby like that, but he wasn't able to tell if that was just a byproduct of being a parent; being a fucked up person with enormous emotional baggage tended to produce that reaction, too.

"What is it, love?" Ginny crooned, scooping to pick him up and ruffling his red hair as she did. Much to Harry's surprise, though, Ron turned away from his mother and reached out his chubby little hands to his dad instead.

In an instant, Harry reached out to hoist him across the table as Ginny gave his bum a little pat. Harry kissed Ron's forehead and murmured quiet words of comfort as he studied his son's sulking face, the one that looked so close to his best mate's that it still gave him chills, sometimes. His eyelashes were so light – almost blonde – and only appeared darker since they'd been matted together with teardrops. Harry smiled softly, wiping away his son's tears. A year ago, he would have gone to great lengths to suppress the next thought that rose, uninvited, to join the first:  _Ron's eyelashes looked just like that when he smashed the locket._

Harry waited for the inevitable sinking feeling, for his head to start spinning, for the restaurant's walls to collapse around him as he lurched into panic. But to his surprise, that never came. He didn't even have to ground himself by thinking of things he could see or feel or smell.

He could be there in the moment with this son and his wife in a way he never thought he'd get to be again.

"You alright, mate?" he whispered, pushing some red fringe away from his son's eyes. Ron responded with a twinkling grin; he wasn't crying, not anymore. Harry laughed gently and wiped away the last of the tears, even as Ron reached out his arms towards the play place. James had probably done something to upset him, but their fights were fairly easily forgotten.

Harry kissed him one last time and set him on the ground to go toddle back.

"You handled that well," Ginny noted, resting her chin in her hands as Ron retreated to play. "I didn't know how you'd manage. When he gets upset, he..." She trailed off, swallowing. "He just looks a lot like him. When he cries."

Harry felt tingles of frustration starting to rise to the surface again, pricking hot and angry against his skin. Could she not see this, that he'd gotten better?

"He looks a lot like him  _all_ the time," he said plainly, staring back at her. "But he's my son, so I intend to spend the rest of my life seeing him, even if you won't let me live with him ever again."

Harry clenched his jaw and looked away.  _Fuck_. He hadn't meant to sound that aggressive. Or childish.

Clearly, Ginny agreed.

"Well, being a baby won't get you anywhere," she said frostily, picking at the side of her cup. "I intend to handle everything in the future, just as I've handled it so far. I was just letting you know about this pregnancy as a general courtesy."

Harry was floundering, his frustration threatening to take him over the edge again. Things were different now— _markedly_  different! He took a few deep breaths, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. That's what the therapist said— always count to ten, don't say anything out of anger that you'd regret.

After a few moments, Harry regained more control. Yes... _good!_  That had worked! Ok. Now he had to explain his feelings. Luckily, not even  _that_  embarrassed him anymore.

"I'm feeling frustrated," he expressed, studying his wedding band. "I'm feeling unworthy. And I don't understand why you only let me see the boys on weekends."

He looked over at Ginny, prepared to have invoked her ire. To his surprise, though, she didn't look angry. Her chin was resting on her hand, and her head was cocked to the side, like she was actually considering what he'd said. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm.

"I'm not sure if I can trust you again," she noted calmly, still appraising him from across the table.

Harry clenched his fist but tried his best to respond with an even tone. "Why, exactly?"

It was a fair question; he'd done  _a lot_  to prove he wasn't worthy of her trust. Specifics might be helpful, if they ever wanted to heal. Of course, Ginny seemed to know what he was looking for. She was so damned good at that.

"There are some things I don't think I'll ever completely forgive you for," she admitted, picking at her cuticles. She worried her lip between her teeth, and Harry knew what she was going to say next. "Like, for instance, not coming into town until Ron was two days old."

Her words left a distinct chill in the air between them. Harry knew she was right...she was  _always_  bloody right. He just swallowed and stared at the table. He breathed deeply, pushing down that last bitter little bubble of pride and ego that would have prevented him from having a rational conversation about this not so long ago. Without factoring in his own self-righteousness, he really couldn't find it in himself to blame her. The last six months aside, he'd done an abysmal job as a father.

"Moving out is what changed you," Ginny added, reading his thoughts. She finally took a sip from her cup of hot chocolate. "You've been a better father in the past six months than you've been in two and a half years."

Even after he'd missed Ron's birth – the  _entire_ damned thing, even her stay in hospital afterwards – Ginny had still accepted Harry's whispered apologies, played house with him, tolerated his periodic absences. One night when Ron was a few weeks old, she'd finally explained that she understood a part of him was missing forever, and that he'd never be completely whole – just as she wouldn't. But she'd also warned that now that the children were here, she had far less patience for his bullshit. They hadn't been born into a war; they didn't deserve the abandonment and emotional neglect that Harry had inflicted on them, even inadvertently.

It had been a final warning. Harry had ignored it.

Missing James' second birthday and Ron's first had been the final straw— the one where the last lingering vestige of Ginny's patience had finally been depleted. Harry had been furious, enraged when she'd kicked him out— but now, the only thing he felt was shame. Their birthdays were a week a part.  _How_ could he possibly have not made it to either one?! He hadn't even owled to let her know he wouldn't be there. He'd been too lost in himself, too selfishly convinced that his thoughts mattered more than theirs. So he'd been holed up in a seaside cottage off the coast of Venezuela, doing such routine surveillance that even the new recruits on the mission got bored.

When he'd finally gotten home, Ginny had been so prolifically done with his arse that she'd put all his personal effects outside and left a note— one that he'd kept in his pocket since then, even when he was still filled with completely unjustified indignation. When Harry found himself grappling and touching this note several days later, he finally realized that being close to  _any_  part of her was the only damned thing that had kept him sane all those years.

He'd come begging at her feet days later, but it was too late. Ginny had changed all the locks on the house, made the wards impenetrable. He wouldn't be allowed in unless she specifically permitted it. When he'd asked to see his children, Ginny had given him a frank ultimatum, just as Kingsley had done all those years ago. He had two choices: He could see them on weekends and go to therapy three times a week, or he could see them  _never_.

In the past six months, Harry had reworked his entire life around picking the first option instead. He hadn't left Great Britain since that day, not even once. He turned down missions left and right, exclusively focusing on desk work. It annoyed some senior Auror officials, but Harry found he didn't particularly care. His boys were his focus now. Getting to spend time with them,  _any_  time, was a blessing. He'd already missed so damned much. Therapy had also been surprisingly helpful, even if he still found himself ignoring the most painful parts of the final battle. He supposed that, with time, those parts would be easier to handle— even if nothing really made the situation better.

So, yes, Harry could honestly say that he understood why Ginny had done what she did. But seeing her now, with that same look of brazen immovability plastered on her face that she'd had six months ago, was making him feel like the piece of human garbage he knew he was.

Harry sank his head into his hands and tossed his glasses onto the table. What a fool he'd been, what an enormous prat, to just assume that she'd take him back. It was a bloody  _miracle_  that she hadn't completely moved on and found someone better, an utter fluke that— even now— it was  _his_ child that she was carrying.

"I'm sorry," he said thickly, rubbing his eyes. " _God_ , I'm sorry, Ginny. I've put you through so much."

To his surprise, he felt the cool pressure of her hand on his.

" _Don't_ ," Ginny said hotly, prying his hands down from his face. She handed him his glasses again. "Don't you  _dare_  fall into that cycle of self-hatred again, Harry Potter. If you want any chance— any chance at all— of this," she gestured between them, "ever working again, you will pull your head out of your arse and step the hell up."

Harry gaped at her; he'd only heard one part of what she'd said.

" _There's a chance you'd ever take me back_?" His words tumbled out in such a rush that they were almost strung together. He hadn't thought it was possible, had consigned himself to the worst possible fate— one of watching himself be replaced in a family he loved more than anything.

Ginny pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow. "I'm not saying  _now_ ," she said plainly. "I'm not even saying  _when_ , Harry. Or  _if_. But if you truly actually spend the time—" She hesitated, biting her lip. " _If_  you prove that you care more about us than drowning out every wretched thing that's ever happened to you, then I might, eventually,  _one day_ , consider allowing you to live with us."

"Yeah?" Harry couldn't help it; he was smiling again.

She gave him a short nod, then flicked her eyes over to James and Ron.

At the thought of living with Ginny again, of sleeping next to her, of waking up to her melodic laugh and her smile and feeling her softness, Harry blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "I'll quit."

Ginny rolled her eyes and started picking at the napkin. "No. You won't."

Harry scoffed as he placed his glasses back on his face. "We've  _got_  the money, Ginny. Even before we both worked full time, we  _had_  the money. My inheritances were more than enough, you were a professional athlete—"

"—I know, it's not about that," she sighed, tossing the napkin down. She brought her hand up to wave at her face again. "You  _need_  to work. I understand that. After my brother—" She cut herself off, her eyes wide, as if she were afraid she'd said too much.

Harry shuddered as her words washed over him, and waited, achingly, for the walls to start caving in, for his heartbeat to pick up, for his lungs to be squeezed as his heart pounded through his chest.

But to his surprise, these sensations never came.

All he felt was a pinching feeling somewhere in the middle of his sternum, one he could easily breathe through. Harry leaned back and stared at the drop ceiling, grateful— profoundly grateful— that he could be present at this table instead of traveling years in the past.

Harry tilted his head back down. "After he died," he finished, meeting her stare without any hesitation. His hands shook a bit, but he found he was able to continue almost conversationally, as if he weren't discussing something that had shifted the progression of his entire life.

Ginny's eyes softened, and an encouraging smile started to turn the corners of her mouth. He knew that expression well, though he'd seldom seen it over the past decade...finally,  _finally_ , she was starting to have faith in him again.

"And, yes," Harry elaborated; her gentle smile had emboldened him. "That was a horrible thing, by all accounts...but it kept me from living _my_  life. Which wasn't fair to you."

Several beats of melancholic silence stretched between them.

Then, in a voice hardly louder than a rasp, he added, "It wasn't fair to _us_."

Harry turned and stared out at the blinking lights again, his face stony and impassive. These were the moments he spent lost in thought, turning a thousand different scenarios over in his head as he wondered –  _daydreamed,_  really _–_ about just how different his life would be if they'd lived. Would they be married by now? Harry smiled a little to himself as he twisted his wedding band.  _Yeah_ , they would... Ron wouldn't have waited long to make that official.

"You've changed a lot, you know," Ginny blurted. She was looking at him quizzically again, like she couldn't quite put her finger on how to describe him anymore.

Harry swallowed and stared back at her. "Not enough," he admitted. "Nowhere near enough, Ginny. But I'm  _trying_."

She reached out her hand across the table. He took it in an instant, rubbing his thumb in slow circles over her knuckles. And as they sat there, this fractured family trying so earnestly to be complete, Harry made the solemn vow to live a life that would make his children proud...and would make his friends even prouder.


	4. The Cave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay...only two chapters left. They’re both depressing.
> 
> Also, as a casual reminder, this entire story is AU...which means none of this happened. Literally none of this. If you want a story that sticks to canon, I’d be honored if you read Noticing, my other WIP ;)
> 
> HUGE thanks to Pregwidge, Weasley, and Beamy for their help! They're also (basically) the only three people who were excited for this downer of a story, so I'm extremely grateful for all of their help! :D 
> 
> TW: Unintended pregnancy. Sex. Angst. Major character death(s).

“Mum asked if she should expect you for dinner tomorrow.”

Ginny groans and arches her back against his stiff mattress. _Fuck_. For the first time in days, she’d been close to falling asleep. Like always, Harry has interrupted her plans.

Because that’s what happens when the person you’re shagging is _a bloody wanker_.

She cracks open her eyes and turns to look at the wanker in question. Ginny can only see half his face, but even if she hadn’t known him most of her life, she can read him well enough: He’s serious. And stoic. And _angry_. His jaw is set as a vein pulses at the corner of his temple, and she knows-- just knows-- that he’s about two seconds from snapping.  

Which means he’s being the _worst_ version of Harry, in her humble opinion.

This isn’t the easygoing, carefree Harry who regularly shags her after quidditch games. This isn’t even the mildly-peeved-but-largely-agreeable Harry who can be consoled with a blow job. Or the soppy-puppy-dog Harry who usually emerges at some point after the first two.

No. This is the let’s-talk-about- _feelings_ Harry.

And Ginny hates that bloke. She really, truly does.

She heaves a sigh and scoots closer to him, although she knows it will take _quite_ a distraction to get him out of a strop of this magnitude. Still, she considers herself uniquely skilled at creating the type of distraction that might get Harry Potter to focus on almost anything else.

Which means, of course, that she’ll give it a go.

Ginny props her head up on her palm and rakes her eyes up and down his body. She takes in his chiseled chest and muscled shoulders and tendoned forearms, even as he hides his beautiful face in the crook of his elbow. But why is he doing that? Hiding his face? She swallows, suddenly dizzy. _No_. That isn’t something she wants to think about, either.

What she _does_ want to think about is how long it’s been since they’ve had sex. Because, in her opinion, it’s been entirely too long, even if it’s scarcely been an hour. Or perhaps two. Ginny doesn’t know; she’s never been great at keeping track of time, not when it comes to him.

She glances at Harry’s covered face again, even as her pulse begins to pound more insistently between her thighs. And for a split second, Ginny considers-- actually considers-- _talking_ to him before she lunges into action.

Wait... _what_?!

She reels back, aghast. What the hell has come over her?

_No._

She shakes her head, disgusted; Ginny Weasley isn’t the type who _thinks_. She’s the type who _does_.

And she plans to do just that.

So she arches an eyebrow and allows her breasts to softly graze his side. He _loves_ her breasts-- she knows that much. He’d first made that apparent when she was fifteen, and as far as she knows, his interests haven’t varied much in the past ten years.

As such, she’s confident-- _beyond_ confident-- that he won’t be able to resist her...but she’s equally confident that he’ll pretend to.

Because that’s the type of broken, fucked-up _thing_ they have.

And so, with an air of deliberate casualness, Ginny presses her sensitive breasts against his side with a greater degree of insistence. It takes nearly all of her strength to suppress a shudder at the feel of his warm skin against her, and all she can do is take deep, even breaths, even if this minuscule amount of contact makes her feel like she’s _drowning_ _drowning drowning_...

So instead, she chooses to ignore all of these feelings and focus on the reaction she’s managed to elicit, even if it _is_ a scant disappointing; apart from the bobbing of Harry’s Adam’s apple, he’s given no other indication that she’s even there.

She smirks; he’s good, she has to give him that much.

But she’s _better_.

Maybe what Harry needs is a good _shock_ , yeah?

“ _Well_ ,” she purrs, tracing a fingertip lower and lower down his chest as she leans into the crook of his neck. “Did you tell _your mother_ that we don’t leave the bedroom long enough for that?”

Harry releases a frustrated groan as she nips at his jaw, but he does nothing to still the downward progression of her hand. In fact, he curves _into_ it, and Ginny knows what’s happening; his body isn’t able to resist her even as his mind screams at him to leave.

With his arm still draped across his face, he finally grits, “I know what you’re trying to do.”  

“Oh?” Ginny keeps her voice low, sultry, even though her mind whirs with a thousand different ways of keeping this purely conversational. It’s time to go in for the kill if she had any hope of quashing this.

Her hand trails even lower, down the lean contours of his body, and her mouth sets to work on the pressure point she’d discovered so many years ago. “But you’re a Gryffindor, Harry,” she breathes, nipping below his ear. “ _Knowing_ things is less important than _doing_ things.”

With that, her nails finally trace his lower abdomen, and they’re just dancing down the wiry trail of black hair she’s known for so long, and she thinks that she’s got one over on him (for once)...but then Harry freezes beneath her touch, and with a soft _hiss_ , his whole body goes rigid.

Ginny let out a dramatic sigh. _Shit_. This is going to be one of those things he wants to _talk about_ , isn’t it?

He doesn’t talk, though. Not right away, at least.

Instead, he seizes her right hand and pulls it from beneath the sheets, dragging it up the lean planes of his body as he goes. Despite the fact that he’s touching her, nothing about this is sexual-- although he’s _hard_. Even if she hadn’t felt it on her way down and seen him pitching the sheets, she’d still have known as much; Harry always gets this vaguely dreamy, blank expression when she’s turned him on.

Somehow, though, this time is different. This time, he’s able to fight it. This time, he’s able to ignore what his body’s demanding-- and to deny what her body wants, too. He draws a ragged breath and stares at her as his green eyes fill with that familiar blazing look.

Ginny knows what he’s doing, of course; it’s one of the worst things about their _relationship_ \-- although she shudders to use that word in any context at all. The two of them have known each other forever. _Longer_ than forever. Longer than she’d ever been able to stand another living soul. And perhaps-- most terrifyingly of all-- longer than she reckons any other living soul will be able to stand _her_.

That realization (though ancient) is petrifying, paralyzing, something she never wants to admit, not even for a split second. To make matters infinitely worse, Harry’d stumbled upon that particular weakness ages ago. To Ginny, this means he’s always wielded a certain degree of power over her, one that’s unparalleled by literally anyone else.

She also knows that the weakness she shows when she’s with Harry Potter never _will_ be paralleled by anyone else, no matter what happens, for as long as she lives. He will _always_ be the only soul who’s been made aware of the shitty intricacies of her life-- the only person who will ever be allowed to realize that that beneath her brash exterior and slurred curses and two-fingered salutes, she’s just a scared little girl who’s terrified of being abandoned. _Again_.

As such, Ginny understands that he’s trying to break her down with his warm eyes and soft hands and gentle stare. What she reckons Harry doesn’t realize-- what he has no way of realizing-- is that due to her present _emotional state,_ he’s closer to succeeding than he’s ever been.

He cups her face in his other hand and tilts her jaw up to face him, his eyes hooded and soulful, penetrating and searching, and Ginny _almost_ allows herself to fall into the rabbit hole of their green depths before she reels herself back from the edge, just in time.

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck._ _That_ ’s a dirty trick-- one that’s un _fucking_ fair. Harry _knows_ what his eyes do to her. She releases a sound somewhere between a gasp and a choke and slams her eyes shut against the feelings rising in her chest, ones that have never, _ever_ been harder to explain away.

Ginny grits her teeth and closes her eyes even tighter, so tightly that her cheeks are scrunched beneath her red eyebrows, so tightly she sees static sparks of white light behind her eyelids. She searches her mind, desperately trying to will those feelings away, and searching for something-- _anything_ \-- to feel in their place... until finally, _finally_ she pounces on the easiest thing she can find.

 _Yessss_.

A welcome rush of white-hot rage fills her instead. She feels a smile curling her lips. Thank Merlin... _anger_ is something she knows how to handle. Anger is simple, targeted, swift. It serves a purpose-- one she can explain and justify and react to. It’s not muddled in the complexities of conscience or _feelings_.

And Ginny considers herself particularly skilled at avoiding the latter.

She grows more and more satisfied as the outrage bubble swells beneath the surface, and it rises higher and higher until it’s achingly, _tantalizingly_ close to reaching critical mass. She remains singularly focused on Harry’s eyes to propel herself headfirst into that target of _furious explosion,_ and this strategy works surprisingly well. Because that _had_ been a dirty fucking trick, hadn’t it? _Yes,_ she decides...it almost _certainly had._  He’s an _arsehole,_  he is. Who the hell does he think he _is,_  anyway, looking at her with  _those eyes?_

But just as she feels the anger where it needs to be-- _just_ when she’s reached a sufficient level of fury to provide him with a scathing response-- Harry interrupts her. Because, again, _he’s a bloody wanker_.

“ _Ginny,_ ” he sighs in resignation. His hand drops away from her chin as the fight leaves his body, and she’ll never admit as much, but she misses the warmth against her face...

Instead, she pops her eyes open and soon finds that she’s furious for _not_ being furious. Which makes the least sense of all. She’s about to try to seduce him again to work out whatever the hell she’s _done_ to herself when Harry starts talking.

But the Harry who speaks isn’t any iteration of the man she’s seen yet today. This is _resigned_ Harry— and she’s only had the misfortune of meeting him once (several years ago) when he’d asked her to “keep her general shagging habits a secret.”

If possible, though, this Harry is even colder than the bloke who’d agreed to this arrangement in the first place. _This_ Harry is positively stubborn. And when it comes to Harry Potter, _stubborn_ equates to _scary_. At least for her.

His voice is so cold and distant that it eliminates any trace of her anger with five icy words.

“I think we’re done here.”

Normally, she’d brush that off. Let him have his way. Disappear for a few months. Return to him. Have a shag. Start the whole cycle again.

But she can tell this time is different.

He’s said the words before, of course-- so many times that they’ve both lost track. So many times that she can scarcely remember a time when Harry _hasn’t_ demanded exclusivity, only be to denied at every pass. It’s an age-old game, one they’d been playing since before they’d known the rules. Years later, they knew these rules very well, each established in their roles; Harry wanted her-- and not just for her body. He wanted _everything_ with her. He wanted the bloody white picket fence and the wedding details in _The Prophet_ and the fat grandchildren in the offing.  

But Ginny can't offer any of that, can she?

She hadn’t been graced with Harry’s life. She hadn’t returned home on school holidays to reassuring grins and warm fireplaces and joyous embraces. Instead, she’d been bounced around from one relative to the next for as long as she could remember until they’d all inevitably grown tired of her, one after the next.

Ginny blinks at him slowly, willing herself to ignore the rush of fear that hits her in waves. _Fuck._ Fear is worse than anger. Fear is worse than _feelings_ , or whatever the hell that awful, glowing warmth is that fills her chest when Harry looks at her _like that_.  

Harry pulls back the sheets and sits on the edge of the bed. She shivers, willing herself to ignore the way his shoulders are hunched in defeat.

From the age of thirteen she’s lived in constant fear that one day, he’d actually mean it. The words had sounded different every time he’d said them, but they’d all meant the same thing: _“I think we’re done here._ ” With a mixture of amusement and horror, Ginny thinks that today must be her lucky day. It seems the Girl Who Lived has finally run out of her infamous streak of luck. Just when she needs it the most.

“I need to leave.” His voice is brittle, removed. She understands the absurdity of the situation, of course; it’s _his_ flat.

She watches him rise out of bed and pick up his boxers before throwing on the rest of his clothes as quickly as he can. Then he’s shoving his feet into his trainers and striding towards the door with quick, determined steps, not even bothering to look back at her, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder. He’s disgusted, she realizes... he’s _disgusted_ with her and her commitment-phobia and all of her baggage and her empty orgasms, and all of that’s running around in her head _fast fast faster_ than she can stop it.

His hand is on the doorknob, _actually turning the doorknob,_  and even though he’s never said as much, she knows, somehow, that this is her last chance. It’ll be over. _For good._  Harry will move on, just as he’s threatened to do for most of her life. He’ll find someone else, someone who loves going home to Mummy, someone who can intelligently talk about more than sex and quidditch.

The only future she’ll ever have with another person is there in front of her, but now it’s running out the door. He’s leaving her, just like everyone else has. Just like she’d always known he would. No one can stand her, not for long; Harry’s no different. What a _fool_ she’d been to ever think he’d be different.

Nevertheless, Ginny begins to shake in earnest as she stares at his retreating form. She’d never wanted it to end like this. Not with _Harry_. _Her_ Harry... the only one who’s been there. The one who’d spent most of his life holding her and crying with her and whispering sweet nothings while the maelstrom in her skull had thundered with a greater insistence than her own heartbeat.

Her face flushes, her head spins, and as soon as he places a foot into the hallway, she feels the words ripping from her throat faster than she can stop them.

“I’m pregnant.”

It hasn’t come out like she’s planned, but it nonetheless has the desired effect.

He freezes where he stands, and she swears that the temperature in the room drops several degrees.

His back is still facing her, the door is still open a crack. When he finally speaks, his voice reflects the frigidity hanging in the air.

“That’s pretty fucking cheap, Ginny.”

She swallows. _Fuck_. Her stomach churns with regret that she’d been dumb enough to bring it up. The hormones have made her stupid, she thinks. _That’s all..._

He slowly turns to face her, his expression impassive, and she feels her heart sinking to her toes. He’s mad, maybe... or at least confused. She knows, now, that she shouldn’t have told him; it would’ve been much better if she’d carried out with her original plan of never seeing him again. His green eyes and imploring words had thrown a spanner in the works, though, hadn’t they? And she can’t fault Harry for that, as hard as she tries; she only blames herself, really, for the fact that she’d ever _been_ that vulnerable in the first place.

So instead, Ginny shrugs and feigns a newfound sense of strength; she reckons she’ll need it. “Believe what you want.”

He closes the door behind him, and she knows the wheels are turning in his head. She’s never lied to him-- not even once. He knows that’s true.

She takes an odd amount of solace in the fact that she’s said it. Knowing about this has plagued her for weeks, hasn’t it? It’s changed her too, she thinks, but she’s not sure if it’s the hormones or the fact that everything’s catching up to her a bit the older she gets. But still... it’s _over_. A pleasant, beachy sort of feeling settles in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps when Harry looks back on this one day, he’ll at least be able to admit that his loose-cannon- _not_ -girlfriend made an attempt.

Ginny rises from the bed, still completely starkers, and she feels Harry staring at her even as he continues to process what she’s shared. She bends to put her knickers on, the furthest from self-conscious she's ever been. She’s never been shy about her body. He knows every inch and curve, every dimple, every freckle. If he wants to take a last look? She’ll let him.

But she’s _never_ been one to remain in a place where her presence is clearly undesired.  

She pulls up her jeans. Hooks her bra. Slides her shirt on. And she feels Harry watching her the whole time. His face is still pale and impassive, but she knows he’s _thinking_ , turning everything over in his mind, considering every single time they’d fucked. Agonizing over any other times she might’ve fucked someone else.

She’s pulling on her right sock when he finally clears his throat.

“You don’t have to lie to get my attention, you know.”

... _seriously_?

Ginny scoffs and reaches for her boot. After all this time, _that’s_ what he’s come up with? “You know I don’t lie, Harry.” She gives him a pointed look. “Say what you want about me. But I don’t _lie_.”

She languidly ties her laces, going as slowly as she possibly can. She’d never confess to it, but she’s giving him time. Harry’s the type who needs a second to make choices-- to ascertain how he’s supposed to react. She reckons he’s just now realizing that there’s probably some truth to what she’s saying.

As if on cue, Harry pushes off from the door and shoves his hands in his pockets. He begins pacing back and forth across the threshold as he stares at the hardwood, and Ginny knows exactly what he’s doing: He’s _thinking._ She’s seen him do this a hundred times, even from back before they were dating. It’s how Harry processes. Pretty soon, he’ll start asking for her feedback; he’s always needed her thoughts and reaffirmations to make his own ideas seem more credible.

She’s always told herself that this is pathetic-- the fact that he _needs_ anyone to make decisions for him. But the truth is that she wishes with all her heart that she’d been raised to trust another living soul that much.

What she has with Harry is the closest she’ll ever get to trust. She knows that. _He_ knows that. Every damn person she’s ever spent time with is well the fuck aware of that-- including his mother, who’s tried (more than once) to insert herself into Ginny’s infinitesimal in-group.

But it’s never worked.

And perhaps the worst part is that her life could’ve been fairly normal if her family hadn’t crossed paths with Sirius Black.

It had started with her mother, and Ginny still doesn’t understand why the two of them would have spent much time together; from what she gathers, Molly and Sirius had been polar opposites. The only thing that had bonded them, it seems, was that they’d both been shunned from the larger branches of their respective families. Apparently, Ginny’s grandmother had also detested Sirius’s mother, so when he’d done a runner during his teen years, her family had taken him in for occasional holidays.

After Sirius had left Hogwarts, things had only escalated. He’d joined the Order of the Phoenix and he Molly had become _actual_ friends through her uncles, Gideon and Fabian— or as Ginny calls them, Tosser #1 and Tosser #2. From photographs, Ginny’s gathered that her mum and Sirius were quite chummy, actually. Her mum had never been around to convey as much, but Ginny reckons she’d taken him under her wing; having seven children should have proven that the woman had been maternal to a fault. She’d probably seen Sirius as an extension of her children, too.

And Ginny thinks all of that would have been lovely, really... if only this unlikely friendship hadn’t changed the entire progression of her life.

It’s pretty clear to her that Lily and James Potter should’ve been killed on 31st October 1981. (Their toddler son should’ve gone with them, of course, but that’s something so dreadful that even Ginny can’t bear to acknowledge it.) Voldemort should’ve heard the bloody prophecy, entered the Potter residence, slaughtered the family, and retreated into the night before anyone had known anything was amiss.

But that hadn’t happened. And for the life of her, Ginny doesn’t know why.

She _logistically_ knows why, of course-- but that’s nothing that’s ever confused her; as a result of their friendship with Sirius (and her mother), Tosser #1 and Tosser #2 had positioned themselves at Godric’s Hollow around the clock to ensure the protection of the precious little Potter godchild. The one who’d been _prophesied_ about. The only one who’d mattered.

And still, Tosser #1 and Tosser #2 hadn’t been there in time to prevent James from being killed. Harry’s father gone down like a stack of bricks, crumpling to the floor while her uncles had been in the other room.

_Because they’re bloody useless._

Their biggest contribution that whole night had been summoning the remainder of the Order and side-along apparating Lily and Harry to a designated safe house as soon as James had died. According to most reports, things had gone rather well after this. The Order had arrived. They’d cast containment and anti-apparation charms to prevent Death Eater cronies from coming to their master’s aid. Between all of the members of the Order, they’d kept Voldemort captive until they’d learned how to kill him; _Avada Kedavra_ alone hadn’t worked.

However, in all of their brilliance, the Order had forgotten something quite simple: Although they’d prevented _Voldemort_ from doing any additional damage, they’d done absolutely nothing to prevent enraged Death Eaters from staging retaliatory attacks. While the Order had all been holed up at Godric’s Hollow (under the same anti-apparition and containment charms they’d used to keep Voldemort hostage), everyone else had been fair game.

Killing her entire family had hardly been more sporting than shooting fish in a barrel, but Ginny supposes that Death Eaters have never been known for subtlety.

The Death Eaters had all learned about her uncles, of course-- the ones who’d _saved_ the magical prophecy baby. The ones who’d led to Voldemort’s containment, even if they’d failed in their mission to keep the entire Potter family alive. But her uncles had decided to stay abroad with Harry and Lily to provide even _more_ protection, even though they’d since relocated miles and miles away.

A cloud of mounting darkness had charged the Burrow on 11th November 1981. Ginny had been exactly three months old-- and this is an important detail because she reckons her infancy is the only thing that saved her. She’d been sleeping in her parents’ room in a bedside cot, even as Death Eaters had begun storming into the house and killing her brothers. Ginny had been found hours later-- crying but safe-- after a Dark Mark had been cast over the entire house.

As Ginny has since been told (more times than she can count), the Death Eaters had descended on the master bedroom the moment the closet doors had slammed shut. Arthur had apparated upstairs to help his sons, but Ginny reckons he’d died even before he’d touched down. Molly’d had the common sense to thrust her cot into the closet and to cast so many silencing charms that she’d remained unnoticed through the mass-slaughter. All six of Ginny’s brothers had died, too, although she’s never requested any of those specific details; she’s better off not knowing, she thinks.

To this day, Ginny’s still not sure if she’s thankful her parents hadn’t made more of a public fuss about the birth of their daughter. If she’d died as a baby, she would’ve spared a lot of people a lot of pain.

Baby Ginny had quickly been placed with Aunt Muriel, and she’d remained with that miserable old bat until she’d turned five. Allegedly, _this_ is when Ginny had become wild and unruly-- although she likes to think she’d been wild and unruly long before that. Nevertheless, this must’ve been an impetus for a larger chain of more disturbing behaviors, because after Muriel, _no one_ had been able to handle her for longer than a year.

At age 9, she’d lived with the Tossers-- but that had ended even more abysmally than the Muriel affair; by then, she’d been bounced around to enough extended relatives to learn how _people_ work. She’d figured how she needed to act to get what she wanted. She’d stolen. Broken things. Fallen in with a group of local muggle kids with particularly nasty reputations. The Tossers had been totally blindsided, just as she’d known they would be.

When she’d caught wind that her father had owned an ancient Ford Anglia-- and that as the only surviving member of the Weasley family, _this_ belonged to her-- she hadn’t hesitated to track it down and take it for a joy ride with her muggle friends.

That had been a lot of fun, but it had also been the final straw. Her uncles had kicked her to the curb even faster than she’d arrived, and within days, she’d been given to another family member. And then another. And another. She’d never seen those muggle friends again; she reckons the Ministry had worked overtime to remove any trace of her from their memories.

Around then, Lily Potter had finally decided to reappear from the mists of the ether in an attempt to insert herself into Ginny’s broken life, although Harry’s mother had never made much progress in turning Ginny into a normally-functioning human. In hindsight, Ginny reckons that Lily wouldn’t have introduced herself at all if she’d known what would happen between her and Harry.

_Harry._

Ginny bites the inside of her cheek from her perch on the bed as Harry continues to mutter and pace. She reckons he has more to do with this than anything. The two of them had gotten on immediately-- from the very first time they’d met. In her presence, Harry had been all bumbling and blushing and shy and Ginny had been all brass and bravery. But then she’d grabbed his hand and forced him to climb a tree with her in the Potters’ front yard, and nothing had been the same since. They’d been each others’ first real friends— or in Ginny’s case, the first friends they’d ever see again. Ginny sometimes idly thinks how those muggles have gotten on, so many years later...

Still, after she’d met Harry— the first person who’d actually _listened_ to her, the first person who hadn’t pushed her, the first person who’d _known_ she shouldn’t be pitied or babied— her behavior had improved. Or at least that’s what she reckons, since she’d managed to stay with her Aunt Graciela for an entire year until Harry had started Hogwarts.

It had been around then that she’d started up again with her stealing and hiding, although that’s a connection she’s never permitted herself to make. She’d lived (and been removed from the homes of) _three_ separate relatives that year-- quite an achievement, even for her.

As such, she’d started Hogwarts the following year not entirely sure where she’d be going for Christmas. Uncle Alphard had dropped her at King’s Cross, but he’d made it clear that was the extent of his involvement. Ginny hadn’t minded, not terribly; she’d known, even at eleven, that she could be self-sufficient if she had to be.

When she’d been sorted into Gryffindor, Harry had been the only person in the Great Hall who’d shown any degree of joy. Her reputation had preceded her; she reckons every other House had merely breathed sighs of relief that she hadn’t tainted them.

Nevertheless, her quick wit and bold personality meant that she’d gotten popular— and fast. Of course, she hadn’t always been popular for the right reasons. She’d discovered Peeves soon into her first year, and she’d promptly declared a foolish and ill-advised prank war. Despite her near-constant detentions and the near-demolition of the girls’ toilets on the second floor, Dumbledore had a soft spot for her; he’d allowed her to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas that year.

Harry’d stayed with her too, although this had required begging his mother for months. Lily had finally relented around the time Ginny had made starting chaser on the Gryffindor quidditch team; Harry had convinced her that remaining at Hogwarts over Christmas would be a _team-building_ experience. There’d been multiple flaws with this reasoning-- namely that seekers and chasers have minimal involvement on the pitch-- but quidditch had always been something Lily had tried to preserve for Harry as best she could. It was one way he could be a _normal_ kid, she thought, without focusing too much on the father who’d sacrificed his life to preserve theirs.

That’s largely how things had progressed for Ginny’s first three years at Hogwarts. She’d been permitted to stay at school for holidays during the school year, and each summer she’d begin a fresh round of relative roulette. By age fourteen, Ginny had been with twelve different relatives-- each namelessly and facelessly blending into the next until they’d _all_ ultimately been unable to handle her.

Lily had immediately offered their home for Ginny, too— but this was another thing she’d _refused_. Harry had pleaded with her until he’d turned blue in the face, but Ginny’d never let herself stay with Harry and his beautiful, kind-eyed mother for longer than a few days. She’d been confident that Lily would grow tired of her one day, just as everyone else had, and Ginny had been around Harry long enough to know how much he valued his mother’s opinion. Losing Harry was something she simply couldn’t risk. Even her _best_ behavior wasn’t permanent. She’d learned that much.

Ginny’d spent most summer nights missing Harry and craving the stability of a single abusive household instead of a series of _unstable_ households that spread into infinity.

Her third year at Hogwarts had marked something special, though, because that’s when Harry had started looking at her differently-- and she hadn’t known what to make of it, not at first. She’d maintained a steady (but varied) circle of friends and acquaintances... although no one she’d actually trusted. Except for _him ._  So she’d had no idea what she wasmeant to think about how he’d suddenly started blushing in her presence and _staring_ at her all the time and stumbling over himself, just like he’d done when they’d first met.

Then one night in November he’d cornered her in the common room and asked her to the Yule Ball, and she’d _finally_ figured it out; Harry _fancied_ her. And not just as a friend.

Of course, if she’d been a more well-adjusted young lady, that realization would have been much less startling. It was the normal progression of an indescribable bond she’d shared with someone for as long as she could remember. (Naturally, if Ginny had ever spared a moment to analyze her own feelings, she would’ve discovered that merely _fancying_ Harry was the tip of the iceberg, and that she’d long ago advanced into something much deeper-- something she’d nonetheless refuse to label for the next ten years of her life.)

She’d gone to the Yule Ball with him, though-- mostly because she hadn’t known where it would lead. She hadn’t known that his chaste kiss afterward would send gooseflesh up and down her spine or that (worst of all) he’d then assume her to be _his girlfriend._ The word had made her claustrophobic from the second he’d mentioned it. _Girlfriend_ had made her feel like she was being smothered in a humid room. _Girlfriend_ had made her want to use her nails to rip out her own throat. _Girlfriend_ was something she’d been nearly certain she’d never be-- because _girlfriend_ was just a leap away from _wife,_  wasn’t it? And what had being _a wife_ ever gotten anyone except being slaughtered along with the best parts of her family?

Commitment was death— plain and simple. If her parents had been more prudent in their life choices, warier, less _trusting_ , they could’ve prevented Ginny from spending most of her life as a restless orphan who’d been shifted from one place to the next like a bag of cargo in the hull of a ship.

Ginny’d had a bit of a breakdown at the _g-word,_ but Harry had still been patient with her. In retrospect, it had only made sense that he’d assume she’d belonged to him. But Ginny couldn’t bear belonging to _anyone—_ that was the real problem. If she’d belonged to _anyone_ , she’d die... even if that _anyone_ was Harry. In fact, it would make things worse if that someone was Harry, because then she’d be involving the most legitimately kindhearted, untainted soul in her downward spiral of darkness. With absolute certainty, Ginny knew that Death would _eventually_ come back to finish the job he’d started so long ago— if she were stupid enough to let him have an opening. And _commitment_ was one of those things that gave Death an opening.

Remarkably, Harry had understood— or at least he’d pretended to. He’d never hidden that he’d wanted more, but in some sort of twisted compromise, Ginny hadn’t sought other romantic partners either. For the rest of his school career, Harry’d made do with what she’d offered, although this has become markedly more challenging when they’d started shagging during his seventh year.

Still, Harry had kept it together, even though she’s certain he’d struggled to pretend their encounters hadn’t meant anything beyond physical release. She’d done the same, of course; she’d never said as much, but she’s certain he’d known, even then, that her feelings for him go far deeper than she’d ever share.

She’d broken up with Harry during the summer after her sixth year— although perhaps “broken up with” wasn’t the best term, as she’d never had any intention of _not_ shagging him every chance she got. She’d actually been straddling him in his childhood bedroom, rocking herself back and forth as she’d gripped onto his hands, when she’d breathily whispered, “You might die. You might _die,_ Harry.”

They’d both come a few minutes later, but he’d nonetheless gotten the point: She’d wanted to expand her circle. For once in her life, she’d wanted _more._ Harry’s biggest fear had been realized; Ginny had finally gotten to the point where relying on one person for all of her emotional needs was too terrifying to cope with, especially if that _one person_ had opted to willingly put himself in danger for a living.

To Ginny’s surprise, though, he’d agreed to her terms— at least as best as she’d conveyed them. She’d shag him whenever she was away from school, but she’d still be free to _see other people_.  He would too, of course— but she’d known in her heart he’d never want to, despite her repeated reminders. This _arrangement_ had become even more pronounced when she’d been recruited to the Holyhead Harpies. Per the terms of her contract, she’d spent the last eight years traveling and touring and playing, living the life she’d always dreamed. And as far as Harry knows, she’s made good on her promise to sow her wild oats, although _Resigned Harry_ had long ago insisted on never wanting any of the details therein.

In the meantime, Harry’d always made it a point to attend her matches, and Ginny’d always made it a point to ensure he had tickets. Harry had consistently taken this a step further, of course, by cornering her afterward in the locker room while he’d stared at her with _those_ eyes, and as he’d bent her over a bench or held her beneath the running shower, she’d known he’d been attempting to break her down with every single thrust…

“How long have you known?” he blurts, jolting her back to the present. He’s finally settled down onto the couch by the door, his elbows resting on his thighs.

She inhales a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Does it matter?”

He has no patience for her shit, though-- not today. “It _absolutely_ fucking matters, thanks,” he says cooly, his eyes narrowed into slits. “And I’ll think I’ll be the judge of what matters and what doesn’t, especially since you’ve just _let me--“_  He makes a vague gesture towards her torso before his face contorts in self-disgust.

For some reason, this gets Ginny’s back up; he can imply whatever he wants about her habits, but it’s not fair to suggest she’s already a bad mother. So she arches an eyebrow, seized with a sudden need to defend herself.

“Seeing as how you know absolutely nothing about this, I’d prefer you not assume I’ve done something _wrong_ , Harry.” She sniffs and plays with the duvet cover. “ _Besides_ ,” she adds, voice ringing with thinly-veiled contempt, “I’ve _asked,_  and sex won’t hurt the--”

Ginny stops abruptly and stares into her lap. She can’t say that last part. She hasn’t given herself permission to do that, not yet. She thinks Harry’s about to comment on something to that effect, but he’s picked up on something entirely different.

“You’ve _asked?_ ” he whispers, and something in his tone has radically changed. It’s higher, more watery, more filled with an aching softness she refuses to define.

Ginny doesn’t want to see whatever she hears in his voice returning to his eyes. She just nods, staring into her lap, and he lets out a string of muttered curses.

He sits with that for a few moments before it becomes too much.

“Who have you _asked_?” he demands, and this time, any trace of tenderness has dissipated. Ginny bites her lip. As a general rule, she doesn’t lie-- but she also doesn’t tell the _complete_ truth. This strategy is the only thing that’s separated her from feeling claustrophobic and anchored and tied down to one person. It’s the only thing that’s separated her from being _dead._

She clears her throat and stares back up at him. “I’ve told a healer.”

Cool indifference flares behind his eyes. “ _You’ve told a healer,”_  Harry deadpans.

Ginny cocks her head. Honestly, what is he getting at? “Who the hell _else_ did you expected me to--”

“--You’ve _told_ a healer.” He cuts her off, gritting his jaw. For once, Ginny knows better than to say a damn word. “You’ve told a healer,” Harry repeats for a third time, pinching the bridge of his nose. And then, more softly: “Before you told _me_.”

_Oh._

“Well I needed medical care, didn’t I?” she asks, the stirrings of self-defense still thrumming in her chest. “As soon as I found _out_ , I--”

“--Well, _that_ brings us _back_ to my original question, Ginny.” Harry glares at her. “How. Long. Have. You. Known?”

She knows what he’s really getting at, of course. He wants to know when it happened. He wants to be reassured that what’s growing inside of her is somehow connected to him, too; she knows that’s all he’s _ever_ wanted. She’d have to be an idiot not to. He’d probably wanted to knock her up the moment they’d started shagging, just so he could have a family that’s whole. That concept might have seemed perfect to Harry-- _therapeutic,_  even... but to Ginny, it’s always made her feel claustrophobic and small and _scared._  Having a baby is the ultimate commitment, isn’t it?

And she’s about to tell him all of that— really, she is— except it all comes out wrong.

“I don’t even know—” she begins wearily, prepared to explain that she’s not sure _which_ game it had happened after.

But Harry completely misunderstands the second the words leave her lips.

His face crumples in a mixture of contempt and anguish. “I don’t care if it’s mine or not!” he explodes, running his hands through his hair. And then, more softly: “I don’t _care,_ Ginny.”

There are several strained beats of silence as tears spring to the corners of her eyes.

Because of course it’s his. There’s never been any doubt.

He’s the only person she’s slept with, despite her facade of non-exclusivity. It’s the type of thing she keeps close to the chest— though she doesn’t really know why. It had started as a game when he’d left to join the Aurors (“You might _die_ , Harry”), but it’s since become something progressively more advanced, something much more sophisticated in its deception.

Does it make her cruel, that she’s hidden that? Honestly, she’s not sure. It isn’t something she’s spent too long thinking about. If anything, she sees it as _saving_ him. Preventing things from getting worse. Ensuring that he doesn’t meet the same fate _she_ might, if she ever allows things to go that far.  

“Why would you do that for me?” She hadn’t meant to ask it aloud.

Harry tilts his chin to meet her face; for the first time, she sees that his eyes are shining. “You _know_ why.”

Ginny shudders as a wave of nausea slams into her. Harry notices.

“Well if it disgusts you _that_ much—“

“—I never _said_ that!” she roars, surprised by the ferocity of her words. She pauses and tucks her hair behind her ears. “I never said that.”

Harry swallows again and gives her a long stare. “Yeah, the thing is, I think you owe me a bit more than that. This time.”

Ginny snorts, about to bite back about how _she owes him fucking nothing,_  when the look on his face stops her. His jaw is set. His eyes are narrowed. He’ll walk-- oh, he’ll _absolutely_ walk. He’ll turn around and go crying home to Mummy just like he’s had the luxury of doing his whole life. He’ll leave her. _Forever_.

But she can’t let that happen, though. Not now that she’s started down this path. He has a point; she _does_ owe him a bit more than that.

She clears her throat, prepared to explain. But Harry gets there first.

“How far gone are you?”

He’s cutting to the chase now, is he? _Fine ._

She squares her shoulders. “I’m about ten weeks.”

Harry swears and drags his hands down his face. “Nearly showing then?” he bites. “You’re _pregnant._  And _nearly_ showing. It’s a wonder I haven’t noticed, but I guess I’ve been more _focused_ on--”

“What do you want me to say?” she interrupts, her voice soft. The only part of her that _feels_ any different is her breasts. The healer had confirmed as much, though; she’s athletic, they’d said. It might take a bit longer.

Harry scoffs. “Well _obviously_ I’d have wanted you to tell me the second you found out, but since you’re _so_ damn—“ He throws his hands into the air, staring at the far wall.

Ginny arches a brow at this-- because this, right here, is one of those rare things that’s not _actually_ her fault. “Harry,” she replies, sounding bored. “You’ve known I was a fuck-up from our first introduction. Please stop pretending that you haven’t spent most of the last decade putting your dick in crazy.”

To her surprise, he lets out an incredulous-sounding half-laugh. He knows she’s right. Harry’s face relaxes into a dumbfounded sort of smirk and he glances over at her. “Yeah, well,” he says dryly, “I’ve _wanted_ to, how did you phrase it, ‘put my dick in crazy?’ Yeah. I’ve _wanted_ to do that for much longer than a decade.”

Ginny snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“ _Well_ ,” Harry sighs, and she can tell he’s gotten the happiest bits out of the way. “ _Well_. I assume since you’re telling me that means you’re…”

“Keeping it?”

Her words hang heavy in the air. It’s the elephant in the room, the question she’d been most afraid he’d ask.

Harry gives her a jerky nod and crosses his arms over his chest again. Ginny rolls her eyes skyward. _Fuck._ She hadn’t wanted to have this conversation. But he’s given her no choice. It’s now or never, isn’t it?

“I’m scared,” she admits. She hates how small her voice sounds, but she continues nonetheless. “ _Really_ scared...more scared than I’ve ever been. Absolutely _terrified_ I’ll fuck this up. Confident I’ll somehow end up abandoning the--”

She stops short of saying the word again; this time, she knows that Harry understands. He doesn’t say anything, so she reckons that’s permission enough to keep going.

“ _But,_ ” Ginny adds, playing with her nail beds. “I’ve never...I’ve never _doubted_ that I’d…” She pauses, squinting her eyes, and hopes he’s following her train of thought. “I mean _other people_ can do whatever they want,” she adds in rush, “and honestly good for them if that’s what they want, but for _me,_ that’s just--” She lets out a frustrated huff. It would be much easier if Harry could simply read her mind.

“I _think_ I’m following,” Harry says from the sofa, although there’s a bit of apprehension in his tone. “I just…” He swallows. “I guess I don’t understand why you’re telling _me_. Of all people.”  

Oh. So they’re back to _this,_ are they?

Ginny feels her eyes start to water before she can help it. Harry swims in front of her on the couch, all hunched posture and imploring eyes and messy black hair, and for just a moment she’s _certain_ she won’t be able to vocalize what she needs to share.

But then her mouth betrays her brain. And she starts speaking anyway.

“ _This is the only part of you that will never leave me_.”

Ginny slams her eyes shut as soon as the words leave her lips. _Fuckkk_. She shudders at the ripples of white-hot shame coursing through her chest and stomach. All of a sudden, she’s a little girl again-- a scared, _vile_ little girl who’s detested by everyone in her family, who’s been abandoned by everyone she knows (and for good reason). Except now, she’s not sure if she has her main source of comfort; she’s not sure if Harry’s there.  

She lets out a whimper and begins rocking back and forth, and she feels like she _choking,_ like something bubbling and oppressive is crawling up her throat, like she’s going to be sick all over Harry’s duvet.

But then she feels _arms_. _Harry’s_ arms. They’re wrapping around her, clutching her against him, and for once, she doesn’t feel stifled or afraid or claustrophobic to be enveloped in his warmth. She lets out a half-sob, but it’s a sound somewhere between agony and ecstasy, as if she hasn’t quite decided which applies. She lets the tears stream down her face as she buries her nose in the crook of his neck, and by now she’s certain he’s crying too because he’s letting out these little jerky sobs. 

After a few minutes, Harry pulls back and pushes the hair away from her face. “So...so that was after the _Puddlemere_ match, then?” She’s just admitted as much. But she knows he needs proof.

“You just _usually_ cast the charm,” she says, breathless. “But you looked so damn good in your bloody Auror uniform that I guess I just--”

Harry cuts her off with a laugh as he presses her against his chest. “It’s ok,” he whispers, kissing the crown of her head. “It’s _better_ than ok, Ginny. It’s perfect. _You’re_ perfect.” She’s about to _firmly_ disagree with this assessment, but then his warm hand trails down to her stomach.

He quirks an eyebrow. “Do you mind?”

She’s a little confused about what he means, but she’s prepared to do it, anyway-- _anything_ he wants-- but then in an instant, he’s laying her down on the couch and pulling up her shirt. And she gets it.

He slides down on his stomach until he’s face to face with her navel, and twenty minutes ago, Ginny would have considered this entire interaction _a bit much._ He doesn’t even know all the details, does he? She bites her lip. That’s one thing she’ll wait to tell him, she thinks. That it’s only _ever_ been him. Oh, and that she’s hopelessly in love with him. And always has been. The thought of conceding that spikes a weak shiver to the back of her neck, but it’s a feeling nowhere near as pronounced as it’s been before.

Harry’s a bit preoccupied, though. “I know this seems a bit...formal,” he mutters to her midsection; Ginny rolls her eyes. “But did you want to go for coffee tomorrow?” He punctuates his question with a kiss to her stomach.  

Ginny gives him a soft smile and a fond stare. “Well,” she responds, running her fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure if you’re asking _me_ , exactly…but _no_.”

Harry freezes and tilts his head back to face her. His eyes are filled with that desperate sort of hurt again-- the type aching sadness she positively _hates_ . It’s such a forlorn expression that she can’t help but rush to his aid. She’ll never let him wallow with that, she realizes. _Never again._

“We can’t go out for coffee tomorrow,” she explains, wiping a stray tear that’s slid down the side of his nose, “because we have dinner plans with _your mother_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if anyone read closely enough to notice, but I switched to present tense in this chapter because everything else I'm working on is present tense...so that was just easier? I think? Anything, thanks for reading :)


End file.
